


Mud Knights

by ladyshadowdrake



Category: The Dresden Files - All Media Types, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, if things were different
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2351186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyshadowdrake/pseuds/ladyshadowdrake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had obviously managed to take care of himself just fine before he met me, and he had Cujo the Linebacker to take care of whatever he couldn't himself (though I got the impression that John was perfectly capable of handling most threats). I'd only known the man for a few hours and I'd apparently already dragged him into my friend circle whether he wanted to be there or not – all of that meant that it was my job to keep him safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline-wise this would be set pre- _Storm Front_.
> 
> EDIT * 10/15 – I maybe jumped the gun in posting this originally. I went back and made some minor changes, caught some grammar/sentence errors, typos, misspellings, and deleted a completely unnecessary pile of “little”s. Feel free to comment if any remaining errors give you the stink eye.

            Scrambling around a corner, I managed to stay just _this much_ ahead of a pair of flashing claws, and burst into the last of the fading sunlight. Hissing in displeasure (a sound that was not exactly feline and not exactly the screech of a rock slide), the remaining maulk still on my tail darted back into the safety of the shadowy alleyway. There went the last time I assumed that a nasty wasn't going to chase me out of the lair I'd redecorated for them just because it was still (technically) daylight. Maulks _can_ walk about in the daylight, but they really don’t like it – their eyes are not well suited for bright sunlight, and they maintain some of their semi-feline aversion to prowling during the day. Unfortunately for me, a city like Chicago casts a whole lot of shadows. This particular nasty was less-nasty than, say, a vampire, but not by a big margin. Maulks are to cats what sharks are to fish – similar overall shape, vastly different outcome.

            I'd tried to get the maulks to leave peacefully, but they decided to respond to my request by kidnapping a four year-old girl. I'm still not sure how they managed it considering that they have neither hands nor opposable thumbs, but there she was when I went to check on the nest, tiny with her pigtails eschew, wiping her red nose on the sleeve of a purple sweater. After retrieving the girl and dropping her off at a police station (I wasn't going to fall for that same trick that caught Nick and I a few years back with the parents deciding we were the ones who took the child), I returned to the maulk's nest to tell them not-as-politely that they needed to amscray. Turns out they didn't feel like it. Who would have guessed?

            Sticking to the brightest patches of sunlight and very well aware of the snarling presence glaring great big steaming holes through my back, I hurried across the street and around the corner. The Blue Beetle, my trusty not-quite-blue-anymore Volkswagen looked even more ridiculous than usual shoehorned between a red Mustang and a silver Volvo. I was surprised that I hadn't been towed just to protect the sensibilities of the wealthy. Believe me, I would have parked just about anywhere else, but downtown doesn't offer a lot of parking options, and you take what you can get. Keeping one eye on the quickly fading sunbeams, and one eye straining over my shoulder to see if the maulk was pissed enough to venture into sunlight after me, I put my long legs to use. At just over six and a half feet tal, believe me when I say I've definitely got the legs to use.

            Jerking the driver’s door open, I wrestled my wizard's staff in the back seat and folded myself into the Beetle. I purchased the Blue Beetle because my mechanic, Mike, assured me that it was absolutely the easiest thing in the world to fix, not because it fit my body well. I'd just learned to be flexible. Jamming the key in the ignition, I took a breath, held it, and turned the key. The Beetle tried hard to do what I asked, and when I gave it some gas and turned the key again, it tried harder still. Even as my heart rate skyrocketed, I had to admit that the car really did give me its best effort. It gave an almost apologetic cough and seemed to sag, giving it up.

            “ _Not_ now,” I hissed at the steering wheel. It was really tempting to start hitting things and wrench the key in the ignition, but it wouldn't help and the Beetle didn't deserve the abuse. I threw myself out of the car instead, barely avoiding ending up as someone's hood ornament, and paced a small circle on the sidewalk while the shadow from the building across the street stretched out toward me. “Not the best time for this!” I told the car. The Beetle didn't respond, but someone else did, and I about jumped out of my skin.

            “Car trouble?” A smooth, pleasant baritone asked.

            “No,” I snapped on reflex, because I'm a wizard and I'm allowed to be grumpy and snappy when startled. “I just thought my car could use some conversation – you know, it gets kinda lonely sitting outside alone all day.” I glanced over at the speaker, who looked mildly surprised, but not outright enraged. “Sorry,” I mumbled begrudgingly.

            “Quite alright. It was a foolish question. Would you like me to have a look?” he asked, and by his expression, he was just as startled to make the offer as I was to hear it.

            “Um...” I gave him a once-over. Comfortably settled in early middle age, he looked like someone's favorite football coach: broad shouldered, obviously fit, but perhaps going a touch soft in the middle. He had attractive salt and pepper hair, lines on his face that suggested frequent smiles, and a prominent boater's tan. His green eyes were sharp, and intelligent, and the color of old bills, almost luminescent in the fading light. He was also wearing more than the total worth of the aforementioned Blue Beetle. “No offense,” I said slowly, “But you don't look like much of a mechanic.”

            The businessman smiled warmly at me. “Call it a hobby,” he said enigmatically and took off his jacket. Without another word, he handed the fine gray suit jacket over to me, removed his cufflinks (actual cufflinks, no kidding), and rolled his sleeves up. His arms were finely corded in muscle and, I noticed with surprise, a tracery of silvery scars. The stranger stepped off the curb and unlatched the engine compartment without so much as a fumble. Drawing a tiny flashlight out of his pocket, he poked around the engine, leaning over far enough that he was doubtlessly getting dirt and grease on his expensive gray pants. Stars, how was I supposed to handle a dry cleaning bill? I wasn't even going to make the rent on the office this month.

            “I think I can at least get it started,” he said after a moment, “But you'd best drive it straight to the mechanic – you probably won't get it back on again.” He left the hood up and stepped back onto the sidewalk. He moved very close to me and I shuffled backwards an uncertain step, but he only reached into the pocket of his jacket and drew out a set of keys. He pointed a tiny remote at the Volvo and clicked it. Nothing. I winced – wizards are hard on technology, and even harder on the newer, more complicated bits like fancy remotes. Frowning, the businessman/mechanic tried again, and then sighed and opened the trunk with the key. He rustled around for a minute before he came back up with a toolkit. I watched what he was doing avidly, but I’m completely lost when it comes to cars. I often decide that I’m going to learn automechanics so I could keep the Beetle running myself, but then who would feed Mike's kids if I wasn't bringing the Beetle in every other week for maintenance?

            “Give it a try,” my unexpected rescuer said after some mysterious pulling, clattering, and clanking.

            I wasn't expecting much, but I obligingly got into the driver's seat and put the key back in the ignition. Maybe it was exactly because I wasn't expecting it to start that it turned over on the first try, sputtering back to life and rattling under my hands. “Would you look at that?” I asked the steering wheel in wonder. Leaving the car running, I stepped back out and handed over the man's jacket. I felt like I should be offering him a wet wipe or at least a bottle of water, but he had it under control. A container of baby wipes came out of the trunk after the tools were replaced. I wondered what else he had in his magical trunk, but decided not to ask.

            “Thanks, man, you really saved my life.” And he actually _had_ (or at least saved me potentially severe maiming) because there was still a bright corridor of sunlight on the sidewalk. “Anything I can do to repay you?” I asked awkwardly. I didn't exactly have much to offer, though I guessed I could spring for a beer.

            “Not necessary,” he said with casual dismissiveness. I didn't feel that he was dismissing me because I obviously couldn't afford to repay him as much as he wasn't bothered about payment. A good Samaritan in a fancy business suit outside one of the poshest banks in Chicago? Miracles do happen.

            “Well, here,” I said hurriedly, digging around in my duster's pockets until I came up with a business card, one of my last. It was a little worse for wear, but I handed it over anyway after a surreptitious check that that it didn't have bubblegum stuck to the back or blood staining the corners.

            He glanced over it and then looked back up at me. “Harry Dresden. Wizard?”

            “That would be me! I'm in the yellow pages and everything – look under 'wizard' if you lose the card.” I grinned at him and rocked back on my heels, waiting for the incredulous sneer, or the bark of laughter, or the demand to be let in on the joke. My green-eyed savior was either one of the most controlled men I'd ever encountered, or he was really that open, because he only nodded and pulled out a wallet to slide the card in among a stack of others in much better condition.

            “Ever need anything found, or help escaping a bunch of blood thirsty faeries... whatever, give me a call.”

            At that he did smirk, and I remembered that 'fairy' in modern parlance didn't refer to creatures from the Nevernever. I cleared my throat, offered my hand for a shake, and beat a retreat before the sunlight vanished entirely. I would need to chat with Bob about a kitty-keep-away potion or something when I got home.

            It was only after I made it safely back to my basement apartment that I realized I’d never asked for the guy's name.


	2. Mud Knights

The phone rang, a metallic, jangling noise that modern phones don't make anymore. I'd been lucky that the building my office is in is about as old as the phone, or I might not have been able to hook it up at all. It rang again. I glanced from the phone to the equally ancient wind-up clock on the other side of the room, and from there to the kitten calendar behind my desk. The next Wednesday was circled in red ink with a sad face drawn over the square. It was creeping up on seven, and I was ready to leave. Despite my grumbling all day about the lack of business (and therefore the lack of rent money), I was annoyed that the phone had waited until I was ready to leave before putting in its two cents. I glared at it, but another glance at the calendar had me picking the receiver up on the fourth ring. One more and it would have gone to my answering service.

            “Harry Dresden's office,” I answered, pasting on a fake smile on the assumption that it wouldn’t _sound_ fake over the phone.

            “Is this Mr. Dresden?” A faintly familiar voice asked, though I couldn’t immediately place it.

            _No,_ I thought at my grumpy-wizard best _, This is_ Mrs _. Dresden_ , but I just said, “Speaking.” I guess it wasn't wholly unreasonable to assume that I might have a secretary if you didn't know me... or, you know, that the other person was just being polite and not assuming otherwise.

            “Mr. Dresden, I don't know if you remember me. We met about a month ago downtown. How is the car?”

            I finally placed his voice and found myself smiling as I returned to my creaky old chair. “Ah, Mr. Businessman Mechanic. The car is still alive and kicking most days. What can I do for you?”

            If he thought anything about the nick-name I’d assigned him, he didn’t say. “I don't mean to impose, but I find myself in need of your finding services.”

            Well, I couldn't exactly begrudge him the favor after the whole life saving thing, but the red circle and sad face seemed to glow as I resigned myself to taking on a case pro bono.

            “Paid, of course,” he added as if he'd read my mind.

            I flushed. “Ah, no, I owe you-”

            “I insist.”

            Well, starving people about to lose their business can’t be too noble. “Alright. What do you need found?” I fumbled around in the desk for a sharpened pencil and a pad of paper, clutching the receiver to my ear with one raised shoulder.

            “It's complicated. Can I offer you dinner to discuss it?”

            Annoyingly, my stomach gave a growl of ready approval. “That's not necessary, really. You could just come by my -” Dingy, dusty, “-office tomorrow if you like?”

            “I would really rather get your opinion tonight if possible.” His voice was just as smooth as it had been a moment before, but he sounded anxious underneath the calm.

            “Sure, alright. Where should I meet you?” He gave me an address and I wrote it down, and the read it back to him for accuracy.

            After I'd gotten into the car and started driving, I finally bothered to wonder what sort of place this was, and if I was going to be let in the door. I remembered the finely tailored Italian business suit and the sparkly silver Volvo, and had a sort of panic attack. I stopped at an intersection and stared blankly at the green light for several seconds, considering a quick retreat. The cab behind me laid on the horn and I jolted forward with a very manly sound of surprise, rolling through the intersection. Even though I was still miles away from the place, that seemed to have decided me, and I guessed there was no going back.  

            I was pleasantly surprised when I reached the address to find that it wasn't a swanky five star restaurant, but a tiny pizza joint. It was one of those places that just barely fits about four tables inside and puts another two on the sidewalk when the weather’s nice. I found Mr. Businessman Mechanic waiting at a bar set against the window to provide some extra seating. Only after he turned and smiled in greeting did I realize, again, that I still didn't know his name. Being the graceful socialite that I am, I immediately blurted out, “What's your name?”

            The man barely missed a beat, but he did blink those money colored eyes at me in surprise and amusement. “Mr. Businessman Mechanic doesn't work for you?” he asked mildly. I decided that I liked this guy. A whole lot. I grinned.

            “Suit yourself,” I told him, and that absolutely counted as fair warning.

            “John,” he said, holding out his hand to shake. His grip was firm, warm, and dry, his palm feeling substantial in mine the way handshakes rarely do when compared to my giant mitt.

            “Nope.” I shook my head slowly. “You're stuck with Mech now.”

            John arched an eyebrow at me. “Mech?”

            “Less syllables than Mr. Businessman Mechanic,” I explained reasonably. He seemed to take this at face value and only shook his head in response. I was faintly disappointed – if he refused to take offense at the ridiculous nick name, I would probably end up dropping it from lack of stimulus. As soon as I thought it, I decided I would keep the name anyways out of sheer contrariness. Reverse psychology that, Mech.

            “What would you like?” John gestured to the chalkboard menus hanging over the counter, and I glanced over them – they had a few of those specialty froufrou pizzas that were becoming more and popular, like white cheddar and pear, but I bypassed them for the old standbys.

            “Anything with meat and lots of it,” I said finally once I’d verified that there was nothing weird on any of the meat pizzas.

            John went to the counter to order and I watched him discreetly in the reflection. He was dressed down, wearing a simple cotton polo open at the throat, a pair of worn jeans, and pearly white loafers. I hoped he wasn't trying too hard to blend in, because, though simple and worn, the outfit still screamed money, and the shoes alone were probably worth a month of my apartment rent. I wanted to hate him a little, but so far I was liking him more and more by the moment.

            He returned after a moment of friendly discussion with the older man behind the counter, carrying a pair of those red plastic cups that live in every pizza parlor ever. I took a cautious sip and, oh, yes, I liked this man a lot. “Oooh, you sure know how to butter a guy up. Don't think I'm putting out on the first date though,” I warned him, forgetting entirely that he was a _client_ , and feeling my ears heat up when I remembered. I cleared my throat and continued in my best professional voice, “So what did you need found?”

            “Normally I would say never do business on an empty stomach, but it is potentially urgent...” He pulled his wallet out again, took out a picture, and handed it to me. A pretty girl in her late teens smiled up at me, curly brown hair, hazel eyes, freckles. She was dressed in an immaculate white soccer uniform and stretched out next to a ball in a standard high school pose.

            “Who's this?” I asked, setting the picture on the bar and taking another pull on the straw. The Coke burned pleasantly going down.

            “Her name is Denise Teller. She's the daughter of one of my employees.”

            “Did she lose her soccer shoes or something?” I asked, already really not liking where this conversation was going.

            “Her soccer shoes are lost, yes,” he said, and then added grimly, “Along with the rest of her.”

            My heart gave the pang it always does when I hear about missing kids, but I shook my head. “Any reason you aren't going to the police? This is not really my area, John. The police would be a better place for you to start.”

            “Unfortunately, that picture is a few years old. Denise is 19 and there are no signs that she was taken unwillingly.”

            I nodded and let out an unhappy breath. The police would take the missing persons report, but there wasn't much they would be able to do if it looked like she'd just taken off with her college boyfriend or something, not when they had more dire cases to work. I sipped away at the cola some more and studied the picture. This next part was never a fun conversation to have with potential clients.

            “And what makes you so sure she _was_ taken unwillingly?” I tried to be as politic and gentle about the question as possible, but most people take that for some kind of attack. Maybe it shouldn't surprise me by now, but John didn't. He calmly picked up a manilla envelope sitting under his sport coat on the bar. He opened it with precise, economical movements and handed it to me. Inside, I found two baggies – one with a few locks of hair, another with a piece of paper that had been crumpled at one point, but was smooth now. It looked like math homework and there was a tiny speck of what I took for blood in the upper corner – a good guess to give a wizard for a tracking spell, but unfortunately next to useless soaked into the page and dried. I set these aside, though I was itching with curiosity over the hair, and surprised by John's apparent understanding of magic. A white envelope at the bottom bulged with a stack of glossy photos depicting a dorm room. It looked to be more-or-less in order, but the last picture showed something unexpected. A sprig of dried holly on window sill. Very out of season.

            “Hmm...” I said, squinting at the picture. I went through the pictures again, and noticed several additional details that I'd missed the first time and the cops apparently hadn't found significant. A thin line of what looked like salt was broken on the window sill, and there were some piles of white powder near the door that may have been salt as well, but it was thrown around and trampled into the industrial blue carpet. Salt by itself wouldn't keep anything out of anywhere, but in the hands of a practitioner it could be used to simulate a threshold of sorts in a place that didn't have one, like a hotel room or a dorm room.

            I pulled out the small magnifying glass I’d picked up from the drugstore years before – it was marketed to help old ladies read the newspaper, but it worked just as well for my purposes and was a lot less expensive than a professional glass. I examined each photo very carefully and was distantly impressed that John left me to it without a single attempt to interrupt or demand 'did you find something?' every time I made a noise.

It was the savory scent of steak and melted cheese that finally dragged me away from my scrutiny, and I pulled the pictures quickly out of the way so the older man could set the pizza down in front of me. My mouth started to water immediately and I stared at it with unconcealed longing. John seemed to realize my dilemma and he took the packet away from me, setting it aside. I snagged up a piece of pizza and nearly experienced a spontaneous orgasm. How had I not known about this place? It was approximately half way between my apartment and my office, though not on a route I would have normally taken from one to the other. Still, I definitely should have known about this place a long time ago.

John let his own pepperoni and sausage pizza cool before biting into the first slice. He let me devour several pieces, and even gave me an indulgent smile while I sucked in air around the molten cheese and sauce rather than letting it cool down. I gulped down the rest of the Coke and John stood to refill it without a word, completely ignoring my half-hearted protests. I could get used to this. Once he’d returned with the refilled cup, I took a few more sips, wiped my greasy fingers off on a napkin – see, I can have table manners when I want – and turned on my stool to face him.

            “I think you're right. I can't be a hundred percent sure, because it could just as easily be a prank of Ms. Teller's or whoever she ran off with, but it looks like she might have been snatched.” I cleared my throat. “Maybe by something from my side of town.”

            “Can you find her?” John asked without missing a beat. His brow furrowed in concern.

            I gestured to the baggie with a few strands of hair inside. “This is hers?” When he nodded, I picked it up and examined it. “Recent?”

            John made a negligent gesture towards the stack of photos. “Taken from her hairbrush at the scene.”

            “Does she dye her hair?” I squinted at it, but I was no expert on women's haircare products.

            “I don't think so. The color matches her brother's and mother's hair.”

            I nodded. “Then it's very possible that I can find her, and maybe quickly if she's in the city.”

            “When can you start?” John asked immediately.

            It would be ideal if I could start after the sun came up, but if she'd been snatched by a faery, every minute could be important. If she was even still in the city, or the state, or, hell, on the mortal plane. At least I had several hairs, so I could recast the tracking spell if I needed to, and I could probably get more as well.

            “I can start tonight,” I said after taking into consideration the general state of my body – I'd gotten in a healthy nap in the middle of the very slow day, and a decent night's sleep the night before, plus I now had calories and caffeine in my system, and that was a very welcome change from Hot Ramen and instant coffee.

            “May I accompany you?” John asked after a second's consideration.

            I hesitated. “John... not really a great idea...” I hate it when clients try to hang over my shoulders (figuratively, as I'd yet to meet one who could manage it physically), but at the end of the day, it’s their dollar. In the few cases where I did have a client who got too clingy on the operation, I would refund them their money and send them packing if I couldn't convince them to back off. I like to dissuade them from it right at the beginning if I can though.

            “I won't be in the way,” he hastened. “But I am concerned for Ms. Teller, and, I admit, I'm also very curious about your craft.”

            He said the words in all the right ways, as if he really knew what craft meant. Someone had been doing some homework, I guessed. Maybe if I showed him a few parlor tricks he would be content with that and let me do my job.

            “It's pretty boring,” I told him. “There isn't much magic involved at all. Mostly it's just the same boring stuff any PI gets up to.”

            “All the same.”

            “Are you going to insist?” I asked warily. I really needed the money and I _did_ want to help Ms. Teller, so I would probably go along with it even if he was one of the looming types.

            “No,” he answered easily, but I thought I detected a note in his voice that said he really wanted to insist. More than that, he wasn't used to _needing_ to insist. “But perhaps some assistance would not go amiss?”

            I pointedly did not tell him that if we came to a situation where I needed assistance, he was more likely to be a liability than an asset. “Look, I'm going to put the tracking spell together before I leave here anyways, so you can watch that. If you still think it's worth hanging around for, you can tag along. _But_ ,” I stressed, alarmed by the excited tension that filled his posture. “If we do get into anything nasty, you do what I say – including run if that's what I tell you. Deal?”

            He did not look happy about that, but he nodded and shook the hand I’d offered. A tracking spell is one of the least flashy things I can do and it doesn’t inspire a ton of _oooh_ and _ahhh_. It is also one of the more useful things I can do, but that's life for you – the genuinely cool things are rarely the pretty things.

            John paid the bill, and came back from the counter with a to-go box and a lidded styrofoam cup filled with more teeth rotting goodness (Stars, I love being a wizard and therefore bacteria resistant). I gave the box a curious glance, but John only smiled and handed me the cup. I resisted the temptation to suck down the contents, knowing I would be grateful for it later. I set it down on a table so I could make a stop at the bathroom before heading out. This could be a very long night, but I was already better fortified for it than usual, so I wasn't going to complain.

            I found John lounging comfortably at an outside table, chatting with a hulking redhead who looked like every stereotype of a once upon a time linebacker that you can imagine. John looked up when I opened the door and gave me another of his charming smiles. I got the impression that I was getting a lot of these smiles on credit, that maybe he didn't give out the full-friendly smile to just everyone. Yeah, wishful thinking. The scene looked so normal, something out of a feel good movie. I could imagine John as the charismatic football coach, Redhead a former player, and me? What would I be in this makebelieve movie? The lanky basketball player who couldn't make it on the court and ended up as the waterboy? Okay, so that whole analogy sounded better before I put myself in it.

            “Are you ready to begin, Mr. Dresden?” John asked, politely not mentioning me standing there staring at them.

            “In a minute.” I put the cup down with a nod for the stranger. He returned my nod with a skeptical look. It finally occurred to me that maybe he and John knew each other and John wasn't just striking up a friendly conversation with a stranger. Well, fine, he could watch too. I rifled around in my pockets and came up with a mostly clear piece of quartz crystal, a strip of leather, and a stick of green chalk.

            “Got any rabbits in there?” the ex-football star sneered.

            “Afraid not,” I said cheerfully, and gave him a sly smirk. “But if you bend over, I'd be happy to pull the stick out of your ass for you.”

            His eyes widened in shock and instant rage, and he snarled, shifting his weight to stand.

            “Down, Cujo,” I told him, not concerned.

            John set a hand on Cujo's arm. “Sit down, Mr. Hendricks.” Glaring at me the whole while, Cujo sat like a good boy and John turned his attention back to me. “Are you always so personable, Mr. Dresden?”

            I shrugged and grinned, high on sugar, a full belly, and on a vanilla mortal so willing to believe that I wasn't a fraud. “It's one of my talents.” I'd been busy wrapping the leather strip around the crystal and retrieved a strand of hair from the baggie as I talked.

            Casually, for no reason other than I might have been out of my mind, I told him, “You can call me Harry, John. Not you,” I added to Cujo. John's eyebrows went up marginally, but he nodded. Cujo just glared. I was going to have fun with that guy. I turned away from John to hide the suspicious heat on my face, afraid that the strange garbling in my stomach might be showing. It was just that I'm not used to working with people like John – no condescension despite the very obvious fact that we are in a totally different financial weight class, no mocking my magic or questioning my sanity. He was even more accepting than Murphy.

            I sketched myself a circle on the sidewalk, keeping away from Cujo and aware of John's eyes on me. The circle was far from perfect, but it didn't need to be; the physical circle was just a tangible image for my mind and power to hold on to, the real circle was in my head. I closed the circle with an effort of will and concentrated on Denise Teller's life force, connected so tenuously to the tiny piece of her that I held. I sent my will out with the spell and then broke the circle. I felt the arrow of magic leave me, a hesitation, and then a sharp tug on my chest as the spell caught. A swell of triumph rose in me and I couldn't help the smile the spread over my face. When I opened my eyes, the crystal was straining towards the west, almost parallel to the street.

            “Could be done with wires,” Cujo muttered, making me jump – I'd forgotten that they were there. I looked up to see Cujo glaring sulkily and John staring at the crystal with rapt attention, expression filled with awe and something like desire. I might have felt a tug a touch lower than my chest at that, but I was still my knees and my duster is good for some things.

            I cleared my throat. “That's all there is to it,” I said, getting control of my body and climbing back to my feet. “That will probably be the most exciting thing of the night.” I hadn't actually expected such a strong response – the hair must have been taken very recently and the girl still in fairly close proximity, definitely still in the city at the least. My placating suggestion that John could watch the tracking spell and then decide from there if he was still interested in tagging along had backfired. From the look on his face, I couldn't have kept him away from the investigation now with a crowbar. Even as I opened my mouth to suggest he go home and get some sleep, he picked up the to-go box and my cup. Bastard was going to hold the Coke hostage.

            “Shall we go then?”

            I made one more attempt to put him off. “Are you sure? It's going to be pretty boring. I can just call you if I find anything useful.”

            John didn't even bother to answer. “Perhaps my car would be more reliable,” he said instead, taking out his keys and pointing the remote at the Volvo. Nothing happened. He blinked at the remote. “That's the second one this month...”

            I couldn't help it. I started to laugh. “Magic does that to technology. The newer and more complicated it is, the more quickly the magic will burn it out. Sorry,” I added, guessing that the fancy remotes were expensive. “Still sure you want me in your car?”

            John considered this for a moment, and then reached into a pocket and started taking out various electronic devices and powering them down. He handed some of them off to Cujo, kept one of the cellphones, and then tossed the big redhead his keys. “Follow behind,” he ordered.

            Cujo sputtered. “Mr.-”

            “It will be fine, Mr. Hendricks. I will be perfectly safe with Harry.”

            This apparently decided (and no, I did not grin in stupid pleasure at the reassurance), John strolled over to the Beetle and waited at the passenger door. I considered arguing, but I wouldn't actually mind more time with John. I shrugged, gave Cujo my most annoying smile, and joined John by the car. “It's unlocked.”

            “Really, Harry?” I detected a note of exasperation in his voice, and something that almost sounded like fondness as well, as much as anyone can be fond of someone they've known for a few hours.

            “Hey, if someone ever steals this car, they obviously need it more than I do.” And I had magical lojack on it, but John didn't need to know that. John watched me with an amused expression as I wrestled my long form into the driver's seat. I ignored him and the clown car comment that he didn't make, but obviously wanted to, looped the leather over the rearview mirror, and started the car on the first try. Go me. The crystal leaned almost straight to the windshield. I pulled away from the curb and only considered trying to lose Cujo for a second or three. I had a feeling that Mr. Cujo Hendricks was not one to be understanding of practical jokes.

            “So what's up with Cujo back there?” I asked after a few minutes. I glanced over at John to see him watching the crystal as it swung slowly towards me when we turned right – that's the problem with tracking spells; they don't take into account pesky things like buildings and one-way streets.

            “Mr. Hendricks takes his job very seriously.”

            “Another of your employees?” I asked, probably very naïvely, all things considered. Cujo didn't exactly treat John like a friend as much as he treated him like a younger brother in need of protection. Or like his boss.

            “My bodyguard,” John confirmed absently.

            I stared at him for as long as the street allowed. “Are you in some kind of trouble, John?”

            He flicked one of those expressive eyebrows at me and his lips twitched as he answered, “Usually.”

            I waited to see if he would say more, but I didn't press when his eyes again fixed to the gently swaying crystal. I felt a wash of concern, even though I know how silly that was. John had obviously managed to take care of himself just fine before he met me, and he had Cujo the Linebacker to take care of whatever he couldn't himself (though I got the impression that John was perfectly capable of handling most threats). I'd only known the man for a few hours and I'd apparently already dragged him into my friend circle whether he wanted to be there or not – all of that meant that it was my job to keep him safe.

            “So, Denise?” I started finally to interrupt the path my thoughts were merrily chugging along. “Has she ever gone missing before?”

            “Yes – she has a bit of a history of running away from home, but not for several years.”

            I nodded - that would have been another mark against abduction as far as the police were concerned. “Does she have a boyfriend?”

            “Yes, also missing.”

            The evidence was stacking up more and more in favor of her running off and possibly trying to make it look like a supernatural abduction. But why? If she wanted to make it look like she'd been kidnapped, a normal human kidnapping would get her better results. It wasn't like she could know that her dad's boss kinda-sorta knew a wizard. Could she?

            “Do you know if she's involved with the occult at all?” Maybe she was just some kind of fledgling pegan, read a few books, watched some TV, and by coincidence happened on just enough real information to make her dorm room look like something from the nasty side had taken her.

            “Not that I'm aware of, but I haven't seen much of her since she was about 15 or so, so anything is possible.”

            I nodded. “You know her father well?”

            “He's worked with me for nearly a decade, and I've known him even longer. I was present at Denise's christening.” John frowned out the window. “I take care of my people, Harry.” He turned his intense gaze to the side of my face, where I could almost _feel_ it against my skin. “I respond very badly when someone – or something – harms my people.”

            I could understand that sentiment. It sounded like he was voicing the mantra of my soul, and it made me warm to him even further and dismiss the very vague suspicion that he was somehow testing me, or setting me up. It made me respect him even more than seeing him lean over the engine of the Beetle in his nice business suit. We made another right turn and the crystal dropped slowly so it was pointed towards John's feet.

            “Crap,” I cursed, pulling over to the curb. I grabbed the crystal and hurried out of the car, pausing in the middle of the deserted street beneath the sodium glow of a street lamp to let the crystal resettle. It barely twitched toward the right, came to the center, and then slowly started to move toward the left at a diagonal. She was right underneath me and moving away.

            “Undertown. Crap,” I repeated, glaring at the crystal as if this was its fault. I did my very best to stay out of Undertown, and the stars knew that there wasn't much down there that liked me. Even less after my latest run in with those maulks. John came to stand next to me and I heard another door slam before Cujo joined us in the street.

            “What's wrong?” John asked, glancing between me and the crystal.

            “She's in Undertown. If she's down there by herself, she's involved in some nasty, dangerous juju. If she's been taken, we don't have long to take her back. Undertown isn't exactly known for its tea parties.”

            I passed the crystal over to John and returned to the car to retrieve my staff and rod. I was distantly aware of noise coming from the Volvo, and was both impressed and a touch concerned when Cujo came up from the trunk with an armful of Kevlar and a pair of automatic rifles slung over his shoulder. John handed the crystal back to me and I watched in bemusement as the pair of them strapped on the Kevlar vests, holsters with pistols, and about a million knives between them. My mental image of John readjusted as he checked the rifle over with smooth, military precision. I could hardly even get my mouth to work when he brought me a Kevlar vest.

            “Please,” he said when it was obvious I was going to refuse. I reluctantly handed over my own arsenal and stripped out of my duster. Cujo helpfully strapped me into the vest, though I'm pretty sure his helpfulness had nothing to do with concern over my safety and everything to do with the opportunity to jerk me around as he 'tested' the straps. I pulled away from him after the third such jerk and quickly re-armed myself. The crystal was starting to curve around; they were getting too far ahead of us in the labyrinthine corridors of Undertown, and this was nowhere near the stretch of Undertown with which I was passingly familiar. I glanced over John and Cujo again, armed to the teeth, and was suddenly very curious about them, but Denise didn't have time for my curiosity.

            “You look like you belong on the set of a bad Western,” Cujo grumbled, as if my fashion sense was personally offensive to him.

            “And you look like a high school football reject, but I won't hold it against you, Cujo,” I replied in my most polite tone. He only glared some more, so I guess he didn't like my polite tone – you just can't please some people. Leading the way, I (very reluctantly) took a pair of vanilla mortals down into the worst of Chicago's nastyville. We dropped down into the entrance, running very close to the sewers, and the two men turned on flashlights attached to their vests. The smell was as you'd predict, but I manfully choked back a gag and tied a bandana around the bottom half of my face, garnering another sneer from Cujo, no doubt thinking that I looked even more like a Western trope. I gave him a friendly middle finger and dug into my shirt to pull out my silver pentacle amulet.

            Their flashlights were pretty resilient and lasted for a few hundred yards before clicking off almost simultaneously. That one wasn't my fault – we'd crossed out of the more easily accessible sewers and into Undertown proper through a section of wall that had crumbled. The stones had a latent Notice-Me-Not spell set into the edges that would repel most mortals. John and Cujo wouldn't have seen it at all if I wasn't there to walk them through it. Anyway, it was the spell that blew the lights out. Probably.

            “Damnit!” Cujo cursed, slapping at the light.

            I willed energy into my amulet and smirked at John's soft inhale when it took on a blue glow, not quite as effective as the flashlights, but plenty good enough in the close darkness.

            “Stay very close to me,” I ordered, turning to face them both. “I mean it. In fact, form a chain- John, keep a hand on my coat. Cujo, hold on to your boss.”

            “Bull-”

            “Listen to me,” I snapped. “I don't want you down here. I like you, John, but neither of you are ready for this, and honestly, you're one giant liability to me right now. There are things in Undertown that will happily gobble you up and use your femurs for toothpicks. The only reason you're here is because that girl doesn't have time for us to argue.” I turned to Cujo. “So shut up, pay attention, and put your damn hand on John's belt!”

My earlier good mood must have given Cujo the wrong impression, but I had my wizard up now, and I can do thunderous with the best of them. His eyes measured mine, but I kept my gaze trained on the corner of his left eyebrow, not keen on getting a peek at Hendricks' soul. Cujo reached out and wrapped a giant hand in one of the straps on the back of John's vest.

            I turned around and waited until I felt John's hand fist in the back of my jacket. I lifted the amulet enough to see the crystal pulling straight out in front of us. As we moved forward, I gave them a very quick crash course in Magic 101 with a big helping of Undertown for Dummies on the side.

            “Either of you feels the other pulling away, say something. If you hear any music or see pretty sparkly lights, make some noise right away.” That was the most immediate fear – that some wandering Will 'o the Wisps would happen upon us and then I would have 3 humans lost down here and in need of rescue rather than just the one. “If we encounter anyone or anything, don't look at them in the eyes, don't take any gifts no matter how innocuous, don't eat or drink anything, and under _no_ circumstances say 'thank you,' or they might decide you owe them a debt- try not to talk at all if you can help it.”

            It was the best I could do, and more talking than I was comfortable with considering how well the tunnels carried sound. We fell quiet as we walked, following the gentle tug of the crystal where it was tied to my staff. I kept very careful note of the turns, building a mental map as we went, comforted by the tiny piece of the Beetle's carpet in my pocket– I kept it for magical lojack, in case someone was stupid enough or desperate enough to steal it, but it would also help us find our way back if my mental map failed.

            We'd been walking for close to an hour when we heard the first scream. Cujo and John both jumped and tried to break into a run, but I spun, caught them across the chest with my staff, and slammed them both into the damp wall.

            “Dresden!” Cujo snarled, pushing back against me.

            “Shut up!” I ordered in a harsh whisper. Cujo strained against me, but John was still and ready beneath the pressure of the staff. I listened with magical and mundane senses alike to track the noise: There were as many flavors of nasty that lured with a female scream as with a song, especially the sound of a child's scream – it made adults lose their minds and start running on pure instinct. Normally that pure instinct meant blundering blindly into the darkness, chasing the phantom scream and getting irrevocably lost. The scream was not repeated, but I heard a slither around the next corner.

            “Close your eyes, don't open them until I say you can,” I whispered and pulled the power out of my amulet, plunging us into darkness. I heard the rustle of scales on ancient stones, felt something immense slide across the back of my legs. A cloying smell like rotting vegetable matter overpowered the general damp stink of Undertown. There was a whisper of sound, and then a weight settled against my shoulders.

            “Wizard,” a voice that was very Not Human hissed against my throat. “What pretty humans you have. So strong.” It had a voice like dry bones on river stones and its breath smelled like death. “Give me one and I'll leave you with the other.”

            “They're mine,” I snarled in a voice I hardly recognized, hard and raspy. I pushed harder on the staff when Cujo tried to move.

            “Why do you need two?” it asked in something like a pout.

            “What can I say, I'm a greedy guy with lots of needs.”

            The creature made a snarling, spitting noise of frustration. “Wizard, what could you possible do with two? They will be too difficult to control. Give me one and I will help you to the surface.” Irritated, the creature undulated against my back. It felt like a cross between a snake and a giant centipede. I had to fight not to gag, and disguised a full body shudder by shoving backwards to knock the thing loose.

            “I string 'em up and use 'em for sex dolls. Nice of you to offer, but I’ll be just fine on my own. Scram!” I felt John and Cujo both tense and shift, but luckily neither of them spoke, or pushed me away. On the contrary, John reached out blindly and put a hand on my hip.

            “Wizard-!”

            “Alright, Slimey, I've been keeping the lights down to be polite, but if you don't hightail it, I'm turning on the brights.” It was a good guess. The monster hissed and reared back. I felt it looming over me and it made me feel very itchy to have my back to it, but John's hand on my hip was surprisingly soothing. I made another play before the monster could make up its mind about what to do with us. “Come near me or my companions again and I'll roast you like a marshmallow. Now, fuck off.”

            The creature hesitated for a moment, and then I heard the scrape of scales as it slunk off, muttering to itself. It had been a lucky tactic because I wasn't even sure what it was, yet alone if I could have taken it down, but I figured if it was strong enough to take John and Cujo it wouldn't have asked first. And if it had the stones to go up against the White Council, it would have taken me along with them. I waited until I was sure it was gone and then let out a breath and pulled my staff away from my companions.

            “Hands,” I said, interrupting whatever John had drawn breath to say. I powered my amulet back up and waited for the touch of John's hand at my waist before hurrying us forward. I didn't want to be down here if whatever that had been decided to grab a buddy or five and come back.

            Five minutes later we heard another scream, and I was as sure as I could be that it was human this time, and close. The crystal and the screams led us around a corner, and we nearly fell down a set of steep stairs. In a half round chamber below us, six scarlet robbed figures surrounded an altar with a thrashing girl in a Goodwill wedding dress on top of it, bound hand and foot. The cultists were so caught up in their ritual that they didn't notice us nearly falling down on top of them. I nudged John and Cujo back out of sight and took a few quick peeks around the room. In one corner huddled a group of women in dirty wedding gowns, and in the other there was a pile of discarded bodies. My jaw clenched, but I made myself take in the rest of the room. Their circle was shoddy work, and the chant had a strange rhythm, several of the members faltering as they spoke. A rattle drew my eyes up and I found the groom dangling from the ceiling – a young man in a tux with chains wrapped around his midsection to pin his arms into his sides. His mouth had been duct taped and he screamed profanities against the gag.

            “Okay,” I whispered back to John and Cujo, “No creatures, just these sick assholes. I'm going to make an entrance. Fan out, but stay out of my line of fire. I don't know what these guys are capable of.” From the work so far on their ritual, I would guess that they weren't capable of a whole lot, at least not on the fly, but you never know. John and Cujo nodded their understanding and I pushed away from the wall.

Moving quietly, I went down two steps, chose a lull in the chant and smashed my staff against the stair along with an effort of will. The sound of the blackened oak against the stone was thunder in the small chamber, and a rush of cold wind blasted away from me like a shockwave. The ritual broke with a collective gasp of fear and surprise. Now, you might think me melodramatic, but there was a purpose to my grand entrance and it was displayed quickly. The chanting cultists scrambled away from me before they had time to think, and their bodies broke the circle, dispelling what little energy they'd managed to accumulate. Most of their hoods fell back as they ran, and those that didn't fall on their own were quickly pushed out of the way so they could see.  Young kids mostly, with only the leader looking old enough to drink.

            “I guess my invitation got lost in the mail,” I said in my most intimidating growl. I'm a tall, lean guy, and I have it on good authority that I can look a bit scary in the right light. This must have been the right light, because the younger kids all drew away from me, clumping together and staring at me wide eyed. Stars, I hated that. Sure, I wanted to scare the pants off them, because they were playing with things they couldn't handle and I didn't want them to feel up to doing it again. But I didn't want to see that look of fear in a kid's eyes directed at me. I caught a glimpse of the bodies once more and felt anger wash away the concern for the ‘kids.’  

            “Who the fuck are you?” the leader demanded eloquently. He pointed his bloody knife at me – it was one of those overly ornate display pieces that were really just aimed at the fantasy crowd. If I wasn't so sickened, I would have been shocked that it could hold enough of an edge to get this grim job done.

            “If you don't know who I am, you shouldn't be in my city.” I took a step down and was pleased when John and Cujo moved with me like we'd rehearsed it. It felt good to have back up, a luxury that I didn't normally have when I was faced with these kinds of situations. “You're lucky I'm feeling generous,” I sneered, knowing instinctively that it was exactly the right tone to take with these kids, each one looking more like rebellious teenagers than serious practitioners. They were here to piss of their parents, to spit in the eye of Authority, and every one of them was terrified that the adults would catch them. One of the kids, a freckle-faced girl of maybe sixteen, burst into tears.

            “We didn't k-know this was g-gonna happen!” she sobbed. “We were just learning m-magic tricks.” She pointed at the leader, a tallish man in his mid-twenties with a goatee and slicked-back dark hair. His eyes were a shade of green that didn't happen without artificial assistance. “He did everything! And when he k-killed them, he s-said the demon would e-eat us if we b-backed out!” The other four kids quickly agreed and the leader rounded on them to scream accusations back into their scared faces.

            While they bickered, I took the rest of the stairs to the floor and quickly scuffed my foot over the shoddy circle. It was already broken, but better safe than getting your face eaten off. I untied the sobbing girl from the altar and set her down on her feet. She scrambled over to the other girls huddled in the corner and they reached out as one body to fold her back into the herd. The leader finally noticed me calmly messing up his ritual and spun to face me, brandishing the bloody blade.

            “These whores are the property of the demon Themestiuthulas!” Leader Goatee stumbled over the unfamiliar syllables, and I winced. This kid was playing with serious fire with his hands coated in gasoline. Miscall a demon and anything from absolutely nothing, to the summoner's soul being swallowed up like Pringles could be the result. Combined with the poorly done circle and the four dead women, I was guessing that the _soul munching or worse_ would have been the conclusion of this ceremony.

            “Clumsy fool!” I snapped, startling him before he could try the Name again. “Have you ever even _heard_ of the White Counsel?” I was furious with this stupid boy for dragging these kids into this madness, and livid with whoever had given him access to the information that lead him here. I looked them over – I didn't think that any of them had broken a Law, at least none of the younger ones, but the leader? Probably; there was a madness in his eyes that set something cold in my gut squirming.

            “White Council?” Another kid asked, trembling all over.

            I rolled my eyes. “I don't have time for school right now kiddies. Mr. Hendricks, please get our groom down from the ceiling.” I only asked Cujo because I didn't know John's last name, and I was grateful that Hendricks didn't make so much as a hiss of protest. I needed a _mister_ with these kids, a definite sign of authority.

            “No!” Goatee howled. He charged me with the knife, slipping on the bloody floor. I sidestepped him and delivered a sharp blow to his wrist. The knife went flying and he bellowed in mindless rage. Turning his right hand to me, he screamed, “Burn!”

            To my immense surprise, flame poured from his palm. I got my shield up by reflex, angling it to protect the kids and John standing behind me. Goatee started to cackle on the other side of the firestorm he'd created, not even noticing that the fire was curving around behind him.

            _Idiot!_ I thought. Using his primary language for spell casting? The reason I cast all of my spells in a pseudo-Latin, the reason a trained wizard uses a language they don't speak or one they made up for spellcasting, is to protect the mind from the magic flowing through it. The word linked to an image in the mind and the magic responded like muscle memory – use your common speaking language for spells and every time you say 'burn' in conversation, a wall of flame roars out of your hand. The flames guttered out after a few seconds and Goatee stood in the smoke, choking and laughing in equal measures. When he saw me standing there with my shield faintly visible around me, and decidedly not crispy, his eyes widened and he went mad. He tried the fire spell again, but he'd apparently tapped himself out with the first one and managed only a whisper of smoke from his middle finger. That failing, he threw himself at me in a frenzy, fingers curled, and I noticed that his fingernails had been filed into claws. I dodged the first swipe and Goatee crashed into the altar. Moving swiftly, I brought my staff down on the back of his neck and he slumped to the ground, out like a light.

            “Right,” I announced, giving him a nudge with my staff to make sure he was out. “Anyone else think your demon god deserves some bride snacks tonight?” The terrified teenagers shook their heads frantically and I had them all line up in front of me. They did, shaking and swaying on their feet, expressions slack with shock. I heard John and Cujo moving in the corner, rounding up the traumatized victims – I really wasn't relishing the trip up topside with a caravan of young women in white dresses, but we would manage somehow.

            “Tell me what happened here,” I ordered, not allowing my tone to gentle. They all looked so young, and I wanted to help them, but there were four dead girls in one corner, and another six who'd been rounded up to die in the other. “I'll know if you lie to me.”

            Freckles finally shuffled forward, apparently the spokesperson. “We all go to school together,” she said miserably, gesturing to her friends. “St. Ladislaus... a Catholic school. We just...” she shrugged and looked away from me. “All that pressure and preaching all the time and... we were just fooling around, you know?” Her eyes flickered over to Goatee, sprawled in a puddle of blood. “And then Klause found us at-at the cemetery where we were... you know...”

            I nodded and resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. If they couldn't even say 'practicing magic' they sure as hell had no business actually doing it.

            “And he was cool, and he had real power. He showed us.” They all shuffled uncomfortably. “So he starts talking about us all getting power like him, and that all we had to do was this ritual. It all just got out of hand. We didn't mean to hurt anyone, but he killed the first girl and then... he told us if we left the circle the demon would escape and it would kill us.”

            I drew in a slow breath though my nose and wished I hadn't. The room smelled of death and fear and blood on top of the mildew. “So you just kept killing? Four women?” I ground my teeth and they all winced back away from me, drawing into a tighter knot. “It didn't occur to you that every time you brought in a new sacrifice you were breaking the circle?” No wonder it had been so weak – it probably wasn't strong to begin with, but failing the ritual and then bringing in a new sacrifice without restarting the entire ritual? It's a miracle the circle existed at all, and also a relief – they had enough death on their hands that if they _had_ renewed the circle with each sacrifice they very well may have attracted the attention of something big and ugly.

            “Alright.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a tube of sewing needles, a handful of jeweler’s bags, and a felt-tipped pen. “Each one of you is going to write your name on a bag, prick your finger, and put the needle in the bag.”

            They startled back, eyes wide. At least they had some understanding of what I was asking them to do – if we were in a place where I had even the tiniest bit more control, I wouldn't do this. I was essentially asking them to dig their own grave and then wait patiently by it for me to blow their heads open.

            “I swear, on my power,” I told them, “that I will not use this against you except for the purpose of tracking you down if you run from me. And I'm not really giving you a choice.” It was the best I could give them, more than a Warden probably would have in my place.

            Miserable, the kids passed around baggies and the pen, and then unhappily pricked their fingers and smeared blood on the needle. I checked each bag as they gave it back to verify that the blood was there and the bags were sealed. I took a sample from Goatee myself, and then ordered the kids to stay where they were and beckoned John over to the stairs.

            “Can they travel?” I gestured over to the suspiciously silent group of girls in white.

            “I think so, though perhaps not quietly for long. They are very frightened.”

            “Damn.” I had five teenagers who might decide to make a break for it if given the chance, one unconscious psychopath who definitely would try to make a break for it (or at least start incinerating things), and seven terrified young people in wedding attire. Not to mention four bodies that I couldn't just leave here for something to find and make off with to parts unknown.

            _Okay, Harry, break it down – one thing at a time_. First priority was getting the innocent out of here safe and sound. “Alright, we need to get them out of as much of that white as possible. There's more than a few nasties who have a thing for ladies in white.”

            “There are some blankets in the corner,” John suggested.

            “Good, let's cut away as much of the frills as possible and get them wrapped up in the blankets to hide the rest.” I noticed they were all barefoot. “Get some cloth around their feet if we can.” 

            “C-Can we help?” Freckles asked from across the room. I narrowed my eyes at her and she jerked back.

            “You come over here, bitch, I'll tear your eyes out!” A girl shrieked from among the survivor's huddle. I recognized Denise from her picture, and the groom (presumably the boyfriend) was holding her back. Denise's hair floated around her head in a tangle and her face was smeared with dirt and blood – it gave her a feral aspect that was at odds with the soccer photo I'd seen earlier.

            “Best stay over there,” I said to Freckles and she nodded, looking pale around the mouth. I didn't even feel so bad for leaving them five feet from the corpses of the women they'd let die, but I _did_ feel guilty about not feeling bad. What does that say about me? Not sure I want to examine that too closely.

            “Ms. Teller, perhaps we can put your spirit to better use. Please help these young ladies cut away as much of the dresses as possible and wrap the scraps around their feet,” John directed, getting the girl's attention away from her captors.

            Denise was the only one up for talking. The other five girls stared off into space, their minds having retreated at some point. They moved like they were in a dream while Denise and her boyfriend helped Cujo cut away the giant skirts and extra frills, and tie them around their bare feet like makeshift ballet shoes. I passed my staff over to John for a moment to retrieve some of the excess fabric.

            “You wearing anything under those robes?” I asked the cultists, hiking an eyebrow. They all nodded quickly and I had them remove the deep red velvet. They were good quality, expensive, and each of them was dressed in equally expensive clothing underneath. I got John started on tying the robes together so we could drag Goatee along while I bound each of the cultists' hands, and then tied them together in a chain. Cujo caught onto what I was doing and made makeshift belts for the victims as well. It was going to be hard to keep track of all these people in the tunnels and I wouldn't have enough light or time to stop at every intersection for a headcount.

            “The bodies?” John asked once we had everyone more or less ready to move out. Hendricks dragged Goatee none too gently up the steps, the robes fastened around him in what looked like a very uncomfortable sling.

            “I'll take care of it. I have no idea how we're going to get all of these people out of here.”

            “There is at least one who can remain behind,” John suggested off-handedly.

I winced, mostly because I'd thought of that myself. I could tie Goatee to the altar and come back for him, but even as I thought it, I knew that it would be murder. Something would come along right behind us and scoop up his body. Best case, it just ate him. Worst case, it dragged him off somewhere and made him into a wizard puppet, or just took his skin to wander around in. It would be more humane and safer for me to just put him out of his misery, but... no. I wasn't that kind of monster. I didn't want to start taking it into my hands who lived and died depending on what was convenient for me at the time. In defense of myself and others, yes, I could kill. I had killed, and I probably would do it again. Because it was inconvenient to drag his unconscious carcass around? I didn't want to look down that road.

            “No go,” I said. “Would do more harm than good.”

            John accepted this with a nod. “Mr. Hendricks can drag him at the back.”

            “It would just slow Cujo down and make Goatee into bait at the end of a hook. Plus, I'd really like Hendricks to be free with his hands in case we need them.”  

            “We'll drag him,” a furious voice interrupted. I looked over to see Denise with her boyfriend. Her mouth was set in a stubborn line and she glared hotly at the unconscious wizard.

            “Thank you, Ms. Teller. You and Mr....” John turned his gaze to the boyfriend.

            “Francis,” the boy supplied in a thick Brooklyn accent.

            “You and Mr. Francis can handle him together?”

            She nodded firmly. I wasn't very thrilled with this solution either, but it was the only one readily available. John turned to me again. “How shall we proceed?”

            “I'll have to go first so we know where we're going. The ladies after me-” I gestured to the milling herd of would-be sacrifices, “And you should be in the middle with Denise and Francis, in case Goatee wakes up or any of our friends here get bold. Hendricks brings up the rear. It's not ideal, but it's the best we've got. Hendricks is going to be in the most danger.”

            “I can handle it,” Cujo answered calmly. His voice was as even as I'd ever heard it, professional, smooth, not a note of disbelief or irritation to be found. I kind of admired him for the game face. I nodded uncertainly and got everyone up the stairs before turning around. Those girls deserved to be returned to their families, but we couldn't carry them and I couldn't leave them. I at least took a moment to turn them over and lay them out shoulder-to-shoulder, hands resting on stomachs. In a probably vain hope that I would one day be able to track down their parents, I took what I could from the girls that looked like it actually belonged to them – a pair of matching “best friend” necklaces from a redhead and a blonde, a right-hand ring from the smallest girl, and a jade bracelet from the dark haired Asian girl. I said a few quick words over them, apologized softly for not getting there quickly enough to save them, and wrapped the jewelry up in a white handkerchief.

            With a heavy heart, I turned at the top of the stairs and pointed my blasting rod at the corpses. Swallowing hard, I wished them a safe journey to the other side (where ever that might be), and said, “ _Fuego!”_ I pushed as much will into the spell as I could spare, wanting the fire hot and bright. The magic responded to my call and a jet of blue white flame engulfed the sad forms, quickly catching on the tattered, bloody wedding dresses. I stayed just long enough to make sure they were entirely consumed and then turned and made my way to the front of the line with my head bowed. John gripped my shoulder briefly as I passed and I nodded at him instead of just shrugging him off.

            “You all need to be quiet.” I wasn't sure who to be more worried about – the victims, who were staring glassy-eyed ahead of them, but could snap at any moment and start shrieking, or the cultists who might decide to take their chances with Undertown rather than follow placidly along to face the music. It turned out that I didn't need to worry about any of them. It took me a minute, but I finally realized that they'd all been gagged. I wanted to protest, especially on behalf of the victims, who had been traumatized enough already, but I knew it was the most practical way to get these people out of this alive. Letting out an unhappy breath, I willed light into my amulet and led my ragtag group forward, carefully recalling every twist and turn on the map.

            Some kind deity must have been looking over my shoulder that night, because we encountered no nasties in the dark. It was possibly because I'd put a bit of a scare into whatever scaled monster had caught us the first time through – this might be its territory, and it wouldn't like the idea of going up against such a large party when it could surely smell that there were now seven wizards among the number. Whatever it was, we made it to the ladder that would lead up to the alleyway in less than two hours, stopping only once to give the tired victims a chance to catch their breath around the gags. Several of them started coming back into consciousness as the ground angled upwards and I heard their breaths labor in panicky hitches, but Denise quieted them with soft murmurs. I decided that I liked the girl.

            Once to the ladder, I sent John up first, and then Cujo and I started lifting exhausted girls up to him. Getting Sleeping Goatee up the ladder was a bit more of a challenge, and I don't think all the times he hit his head were completely by accident. I glared at Cujo, but the man just looked blandly back at me.

            I slumped against the alley wall as soon as I got out of the pit, breathing in fresh air and trying hard to think of what to do next. So I had them all topside – now what? I could get three, maybe four into my car if they squished and I drove very slowly, and the Volvo could probably take another four or five with similar squishing, but that was still not enough space. I guess I could squeeze Goatee into the storage compartment, but I hated to think of how that would look if (when, the cynic in me said) I got pulled over. Perhaps I could leave John or Cujo with a group of them and then come back? But where was I supposed to take them?

            While I was trying to figure all this out, two black vans pulled up at the mouth of the alley. I looked at them blearily. _Great_ , I thought, annoyed. _Exactly what we need... let me guess, Cult Back Up?_

            I pushed myself away from the wall and planted my staff to meet the new threat, but a shout of “Dad!” caught me off guard. Denise darted around me and threw herself into the arms of the driver from van #1. It took my tired brain a second to realize that this was _us_ back up. How did that happen? I looked over at John, but he didn't seem surprised to see them. I helped all the victims into van #1, and the cultists into the second van with Goatee tied up firmly in the far back row.

            “Where are we taking them?” John asked, gesturing to van #2.

            I huffed out a sigh. “I don't even know. Goatee needs to be kept somewhere secure and isolated until I can get the … er... authorities here,” I said, lamely covering up my near slip.

            “The White Council?” John clarified and I winced, remembering that I'd asked the cultists about the Council down in the lair.

            “You're not supposed to know about those guys.”

            John waved my concern off. “Don't worry, you didn't spill the secret. I was given a brief on the supernatural world before I contacted you.”

            “I... see...” I said, but really I didn't. I was too tired to figure it out. Sure, I'd gotten in a nap earlier today, or was it yesterday now? I tried to count up the time we'd spent in Undertown and was coming up with a blank. It simultaneously felt like a few minutes and a few days.

            “Isolated and secure,” John repeated, bringing me on track. “Anything else?”

            “Uh... he should probably stay gagged, and tape oven mitts around his hands. If possible, put him somewhere under running water to disrupt any magic he might get up to.” Where exactly did I think we were going to find running water to dump him under? Was I cruel enough to open a garden hose over his head?

            “The others?”

            I shrugged. “I'm pretty sure they're harmless, or close to it. I'm not sure any of them actually have real talent, and if they do, it's minor.”

            “What will your Council do with them?” John asked curiously.

            “Not sure,” I lied. Or at least it was a partial lie. Goatee would be examined to see if he'd been engaging in black magic. If he had, his head would come off, end of story. I didn't like turning someone over for that, not considering my own history with the Council, and the Doom of Damocles hanging over my head, but this idiot had brought _children_ into his dark ritual, killed four girls, and tried to summon a _demon_. I couldn't turn him over to the police – the evidence was burned to a cinder in a place they couldn't get to anyways, and this guy had just enough power that he could cause some real damage in a prison. Lock up the fire mage lunatic with a bunch of convicts who like to start fights? Well, it would at least help to unburden the prison system, I guess.

            “I need a phone,” I said tiredly. John reached for his cellphone, but I waved him off. “I would probably kill that thing before I could even get the call placed. A payphone will do.”

            “We'll find one on the way,” John said evenly, putting the small device back into his pocket.

            “On the way where?”

            “My estate.” John looked surprised, as if I should have figured this out. “I assumed you would want to stay in custody of these... people.” His jaw was tight as he said the word and I got the distinct impression that John would prefer it if I decided not to go along, and if these 'people' were accidentally killed to death, well, wouldn't that be a shame?

            “John?”

            He turned to look at me, face tired and lined in the poor light.

            “What exactly do you _do_?”

            John blinked at me and frowned. “I run the mob.”

            I blinked back at him and waited for the punch line. “The... the _mob_ mob? Like cement shoes and -”

            John rolled his eyes. “Such a tired cliché. No cement shoes, but yes, that mob.” He looked at me curiously. “Harry... you honestly didn't know?”

            It clicked, finally, and hell's bells I can be so stupid sometimes! John – Gentleman Johnny Marcone, the man who single-handedly ran Chicago's Outfit. I gaped at him, mouth working soundlessly. Of course I'd known, I had to have known – even I'm not that dense. The bodyguard who looked like he broke kneecaps for batting practice, the trunk full of useful tools (including Kevlar and automatic weapons), the magically appearing dark vans?

            _You can be so clueless sometimes, Dresden!_ I chided myself angrily.

            I was just working myself up to some righteous indignation and an accusation that John had lied to me by means of omission, and how betrayed I felt that I'd been tricked into taking a criminal scumbag into my friend circle, when John's hands came up to either side of my face and turned my head so I was looking at him. I tried to tug away from his grip, but he caught my eyes very deliberately and held on. I didn't have to meet his gaze – I could have turned my eyes away, I could have focused on his nose, or just shut my eyes, but I didn't. Instead, I stared into his green eyes and just... fell into him.

            I have never seen a soul as ordered and neat as John Marcone's. His soul was clinical white walls, everything kept exactly where it should be. He was a man who had known violence and chaos and who aimed to bring the whole world to heel to make up for it, and was willing to do whatever it took to achieve those ends. He had a predator's soul, a tiger's soul – not cruel, but imminently capable of doing violence if it was necessary to protect his territory, and he was fiercely territorial. Yet for all that, he was not a violent man by nature, and he abhorred violence for the sake of violence. He had wrapped his hand around the throat of the criminal underworld, but he ran it more like a Fortune 500 company than a gang. This place was bare, nothing hidden, no truth kept him from himself even if he could hide it from others. There was only one corner that the whiteness didn't touch, a deep darkness that drove him, fueled him on his mission. It was a secret shame, but one he wouldn't tuck away, no, it was something he kept out and prodded at whenever he started to forget. The shadow of this darkness is what shaped him, urged him to make the world a bit of a cleaner place – even if he had to be mired hip deep in filth to do it. I tried to peer into the darkness, to see what made this man tick, but I was tugged away from the soulgaze before I got close enough.

            John's fingers slackened against my face. Though it felt like I'd spent hours letting the cool order of John's soul wash over me, I knew it had been less than a second. I didn't know what John saw in my soul – I never asked the people who have gazed me and I don’t spend a lot of time examining my reflection. People had screamed, fainted, and started crying after peering into my soul. John blinked and nodded, as if he'd had some question answered. If there was terror and darkness in my soul, I believed that John, more than anyone I'd ever known, could handle the sight of it.

            “See what you were looking for?” I asked quietly.

            John hesitated, but nodded. His fingers tightened again and his eyes met mine fearlessly. The gaze was a one time deal. I would never again fall into the clinical, calculated depths of his tiger's soul.

            “This is our city, Harry – yours and mine. We are not so different, we want the same thing, to make Chicago safe.”

            “Your business hurts people,” I complained weakly.

            “Yes,” he agreed without a trace of apology or shame. “There will always be people who are out there to cause harm, looking for an escape or a cheap high. My business supplies them with that. And if I didn't do it, someone else would be happy to take over. But someone else wouldn't make sure the drugs are as safe as drugs can possibly be, wouldn't ensure that the working girls are treated like humans, and someone else wouldn't keep it all off school campuses and away from parks where children play. My business is filthy and deadly and you can hate it all you want, but you also have to acknowledge that it is _necessary_ and I do it better than anyone else.”

            I swallowed hard. He was right. Even the cops knew it, would even admit it to each other in the relative safety of the precinct, if nowhere else. Marcone's business might have been built on blood and human misery, but bystander causalities were kept to an absolute minimum, and John protected children with ruthless ferocity. Anyone found harming, selling, or dealing to children mysteriously disappeared or turned up at the police station with cases already built against them. He didn't tolerate rivals operating in his city, and had even made a dent in the gang violence. The police hated him for the principal of the thing, but they all grudgingly admired him too, counted their lucky stars that they had Marcone on the street and not a Vargassi. Murphy was regularly furious that they wouldn't go after him even if they could get to him, but even she knew that the alternative to Gentleman Johnny Marcone was anarchy in the underworld.

            And could I really throw stones? How often did I have to take care of things on my own, knowing that I would get no help from the Council and the police couldn't handle it? I didn't deal, or facilitate prostitution or theft, but any system of law would call me at least a vigilante if they were feeling generous. Hell, I had just incinerated four bodies and had the murderer in my custody with no intention of turning him over to the police. I guess that made me an accessory after the fact on top of everything else.

            “I need you, Harry,” John said, softly interrupting my musings. “I am doing my best to keep the human darkness to the shadows, but I do not have the resources to fight the supernatural world – I don't have the knowledge or the ability. Help me.”

            Goddamn him, he made such a compelling argument. I remembered the feeling of having back up, knowing I wasn't alone in that den. To have that when I needed it? Not having to take down infestations of this nasty or that nasty by myself... it was so tempting.

            “So you're really just a good guy, misunderstood?” I demanded, angry that he was winning me over with hardly a fight.

            “Harry... you've seen my soul.” A smile twitched across his face. “I will never be the white knight, and I make no apologies for that. I can do more on this side of the law, and I refuse to let something like a label stand between me and my goals.”

            I bowed my head and John finally released me as Cujo approached us. “We're ready, sir.”

            “You don't have to decide now, but will you at least come with me? You're exhausted and you have several young charges who need you.”

            I nodded miserably. John, the too-forward bastard, reached into my hip pocket and came up with my keys, not at all impressed by the very manly noise of protest I made as I tried to squirm away.

            “Hey!”

            He tossed my keys to one of his goons and gestured to the Beetle. “Follow in Mr. Dresden's car.” The goon looked over the Beetle with an ugly sneer on his smashed face. He looked like a Pekingese with his pug nose and slightly bulbous eyes beneath bushy brows. John noticed the expression on his face and pinned the man with a look. “Be sure that absolutely no harm comes to it.”

            Pekingese must have been impressed with his boss' expression, because he nodded and cradled the keys much more carefully. John nodded in satisfaction and made a gesture for me to proceed him to the van. I wanted to protest that I could drive my own damn car, and I didn't want Pekingese to get drool and goon-coodies all over it, but then I remembered that Goatee and the Junior Death League were technically my prisoners. I sighed and followed John to the van.   
            We climbed into the back with Cujo at the wheel and another goon with spiked hair and a pinched face in the passenger's seat. We sat at a bench that had been modified so that it faced the remaining three rows of seats in the back. The cultists were all belted in, but I couldn't see the buckles and guessed that the safety restraints were more on the restraint side and less on the safety side. I gave John an exasperated look, but he didn't even favor my silent criticism with a lifted eyebrow. I had to stretch my staff across both of our laps and it still just barely fit into the vehicle. The staff would be useless if Goatee woke up or one of the scared kids showed more talent than I was suspecting, so I shook out my shield bracelet just in case.

            Goatee was still out and I was worried, though not as worried as I thought I should be. I didn't want anyone to die, and I definitely didn't want them to die because I smacked them on the back of the head with a staff of solid oak, but it wouldn't be the worst fate for him. I remembered the smell of that musty bag over my head, the sound and feel of my breath as it pounded against the canvas, and had to quickly shake the memory away. I didn't envy Goatee his inevitable meeting with the Wardens.

            “He's alright, just unconscious,” John said. I jumped and narrowed my eyes at him. He was writing away at a small leather bound book that appeared in his hand as soon as we got into the van. I didn't even realize he was looking at me at all, yet alone watching so closely that he could tell I was wondering if Goatee was perhaps bleeding into his skull.

            “Right,” I muttered. We fell quiet after that, and I didn't mind it so much. Or I wouldn't have minded it so much if it weren't for the five terrified teenagers huddling in the seats in front of me, tired and miserable, and probably being missed by their parents right now.

            Because I was facing the rear and might have been dozing off just a little, I missed the grand approach to Marcone's estate, but I was suitably impressed once I made it out of the van. It was a small house for the area, but that wasn't saying much by a normal person's standards. Strategically placed lights lit the place up from the outside, and a long stretch of a meticulously manicured lawn was visible over the crest of a hill, stretching out to the treeline in the back. I gave John nod of approval as he stepped out next to me.

            Together we got the tired teenagers out of the van. Goatee directed an unfocused glare at me from the back when I climbed back in for him. He struggled in the make-shift straightjacket John had cleverly rigged up as part of the harness. A small part of me wanted to just yank the guy of the van by his ankles and never mind any harm it might do him, but the truth was that I pitied the kid. I had been one small decision away from being him – I understood the lure of dark magic. That didn't make what he'd done any better, but it gave me what I needed to treat him like I should. Instead of yanking him out, I checked the back of his head, unbuckled the belt, and gently urged him out of the seat. He hobbled along ineffectually, shuffling his weight side-to-side and snarling profanities the whole time. I wasn't looking forward to getting him into the house, but John had seen to this as well and I found a gurney waiting for us at the van door. I was impressed with how quickly he made things appear, all without the benefit of a cellphone. Maybe he wasn't so vanilla and actually telepathic?

            Cujo and Spike wrestled Goatee onto the gurney and strapped him down while he tried to kick and bite them. I don't think I was imagining Spike's aborted backhand, but I was glad I didn't have to intervene on Goatee's behalf. I could pity him, sure, but that didn't mean I liked the idea of sticking my proverbial neck out for him.

            I herded my group of cultists, looking pathetically young and scared without their robes, into the house. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when John lead us through the house and down two floors to a genuine jail block. A single long corridor spanned what appeared to be most of the length of the house with doors on each side. The first four doors on either side were solid with only a window set high in the door. I was grateful that all of these doors were open and the rooms beyond empty and looking unused. The whole set up was unpainted concrete, but each of the cells were otherwise as comfortably appointed as a cell was likely to get: a toilet and sink, a bed with clean white linens, and even bedside tables. The doors all opened in and each room was sunken down three steps so someone inside couldn't see out the window without standing on tip-toe at the top step, and it would be virtually impossible to ambush someone opening the door.

            Past the eight small private cells were two holding cells, one on either side of the corridor, large rooms fitted with bunk beds and a few benches. High half-windows would let in some light during the day, and (besides the bars) they looked more like a barracks than cells.

            “We'll put the three young ladies in here,” John said, gesturing to the cell on the left. Cujo, following silently behind us, took out a key and opened the door. It clanged loudly in the otherwise silent corridor. Freckles gasped and her two friends clung tighter to her side. She was the largest of the three girls, stocky with frizzy dark hair. The other two were petite blondes and looked enough alike to be sisters or cousins.

            “No one is going to hurt you,” I told them gently. Freckles nodded jerkily and the three girls shuffled into the cell. The two blondes started to sob as soon as the cell door slammed shut and Freckles did her best to comfort them, drawing them over to sit on a bench with her.

            “I'll have food and clean clothing brought down to them,” John reassured me. “And a female guard posted in the hall.”

            I nodded, grateful and kind of hating that I felt so grateful to a man who was prepared for prisoners in his _home_. The two boys slunk into the other cell without a word of protest, both clinging to the bars to look across the hall at their friends. I wanted to argue that there was no reason they couldn't all be in the same cell, but I sensed that it was asking for trouble to put all five of them in physical reach of each other. Not only had I noticed the gangly shaggy-headed boy holding Freckles' hand in the van, but these would seem like dire circumstances to teenagers. Teenagers I suspected were otherwise pretty well sheltered. Sex, or a suicide pact, or a daring escape seemed equally likely.

            “Are your parents expecting you home tonight?” I asked, turning immediately to Freckles as the most likely source of an honest answer. She shook her head and then froze, seeming to realize after the fact that it might have worked more in her favor if she'd lied and told me they were already overdue. She sighed.

            “No, they think we're all out on a camping trip for the weekend.”

            “Unsupervised?” I asked, hiking an eyebrow.

            “Not... really,” she answered, refusing to meet my eye. I nodded in understanding – the old teenage standby. Everyone says that another kid's parent/guardian/big brother/uncle, etc. was going to be staying with them.

            I nodded. I wanted to promise that I would have them home before their parents started to worry, but I couldn't promise that. I had no idea how the White Council would handle them, but I made a silent promise to do what I could for them.

            Giving John a tired glance to let him know I was done with the kids for the time being, I started back towards the door. A short, stocky woman with dark skin and close-cropped hair passed us on the way down. She wore body armor and carried a Taser prominently displayed on her hip, along with what I was reasonably sure was a collapsible baton. I privately thought that was all overkill, but I wasn't about to tell John how to run his prison. We stopped at the cell closest to the door on the left-hand side, furthest away from the kids. Goatee's makeshift straightjacket had been replaced with a real straightjacket and he was muzzled rather than gagged.

            “More useful than tapped-on oven mitts,” I muttered, but I was alarmed at the sight. “Is that really necessary?” I asked in an undertone.

            “He has already proven himself dangerous and resourceful,” John said very softly so Goatee would not overhear us. “Not only have I witnessed him throwing fire around, but he managed to kidnap eleven healthy young people without drawing the attention of the police. I'm not inclined to take any chances. Are you?”

            I shifted uncomfortably, but shook my head. It wasn't any worse than my suggestion of gagging him and tapping oven mitts over his hands. It was probably more comfortable than my suggestion, come to think of it. Goatee glared at me with a fierce hatred and I gave him back the most bland expression I could manage. I studiously avoided his eyes – whatever had twisted him, I didn't want to see it.

            “I'm afraid we can't manage the running water,” John said regretfully. I looked over to see his eyes in unfocused contemplation, and I guessed immediately that he was now considering the construction of a magical prison cell. Mental note: watch what you say around Gentleman Johnny Marcone.

            “Right. Can we get these kids fed and get some sleep?” I asked finally. I still needed to make that call to the White Council, and I needed to make it before I went to sleep – I didn't want to risk them somehow finding out about it from someone else and coming down on _me_ for this mess. The White Council didn't really like me and they were just itching for an excuse to drop the Doom hovering over my head. If they thought they could make me into the leader of this band of merry do-no-gooders, they would do it in a heartbeat and take off my head before I could offer a word in my defense.

            “And can I use a phone?” I asked as we trudged back up into the house proper. I'd been too focused on the kids to notice on my way down, but the entrance to the prison was concealed, perhaps inevitably, behind a bookcase in a small formal sitting room.

            “That's got to be the most cliché hiding place ever,” I complained as we stepped back into the gentle lamplight.

            “It's a cliché for a reason, Harry.” He led me out of the room, standing aside briefly for a middle aged woman in a maid's uniform pushing a cart with covered dishes and stacks of clothing and sheets. I startled her by grabbing one of the coverings to check what was underneath – a surprisingly appetizing plate of chicken, mashed potatoes, and vegetables on paper plates with plastic spoons. Nothing they could harm themselves or someone else with, and it was generously edible.

            “Sorry,” I apologized, pulling out my most charming smile. Apparently my charming is rusty because she looked at me like I was dangerously insane and nodded slowly. She glanced over at John, who gestured for her to continue.

            “Satisfied?” John asked without a hint of irritation, though there may have been some amusement. I nodded.

            “Thanks for taking care of them. I know you don't like to treat them so well, considering...” I'd seen that plainly in Marcone's soul – people who went after him and his did not get comforts.

            “They're children,” John answered as if that explained everything, and I guess it did. I hadn't noticed a covered plate for Goatee after all.

 

~*~

           

            I stood as far away from the base of the phone as I could, stretching out the length of the corded phone. I was surprised John _had_ a corded phone, but it was yellow with age, so maybe he'd dug it up out of some storage box just for me. How sweet.

            A gruff voice answered after the tenth ring and I had to stifle a groan. “Hi, Warden Morgan!” I greeted, gushing with cheerleader bubbliness. Don't ask me where I pulled the energy from in the midst of my exhaustion. Sitting at the desk on the other side of the room, John gave me a startled look. I winked at him.

            “So nice to hear your voice. How's the family?”

            “Dresden,” he snarled. It sounded like I'd woken him up and I glanced at the clock to see it was nearly two in the morning. Well, I wasn't going to feel bad about that. I should have known that it would be Morgan to answer the phone – he was the Warden for this area after all, and it would be his duty to pick up the line. All White Council wizards had a number to contact to get in touch with a Warden 24/7. I'd just never used it.

            “You know, I was just thinking the other day how much I missed your company,” I said stupidly. I really should have just told him what was up, but my mouth doesn't listen to reason.

            “Dresden. I'm hanging up,” Morgan warned through the static that I could easily imagine was actually the sound of him gnashing his teeth. I was surprised our connection had been good this long. Neither of us were exactly slouches in the raw power department. A phone call between us should have instantly shut down the whole power grid or something.

            “Morgan, wait!” I stalled quickly. “You know I wouldn't be calling if I didn't have a damn good reason.”

            “I'm waiting.” A man of few words, that was my Warden. Oh, had I forgotten to mention? Other than just being the Warden assigned to Chicago and the surrounding lands (and who knew what other territory – I don’t keep up on Warden assignments), he was also _my_ Warden. Essentially, he was my magical probation officer. Except instead of having the theoretical power to send me back to jail, he carried a silvered sword that he had authority to use to decapitate me if I stepped out of line. Needless to say, I try to avoid his notice as much as possible.

            “I found a practicing warlock,” I told him succinctly and unhappily. I had no real desire to put Morgan onto _anyone_ , but even I could tell that Goatee was not going to stop. If I gave him a slap on the wrist and let him walk, not only would I get beheaded for aiding and abetting, but he _would_ kill again. Maybe this time he would be successful in getting his demon friend an invitation Topside.

            “You what?” Morgan asked me, shock evident even over the crackly static.

            “I have in my custody a practicing warlock,” I shouted. The disturbance was getting worse and I was starting to pick up bits and pieces of other conversations, a few snatches of words in a language I didn't recognize, a second or two of a pop song. “Hello?”

            “Where. Are. YOU?”

            I blanked. I should have realized, of course, that he was going to want to know where I was. I couldn't just give him John's address. Morgan would have a heyday if he arrived at my location to find my warlock locked up in an honest-to-no-fricking-kidding isolation cell in the home of a vanilla mortal.

            “Morgan, I can't hear you!” I lied. “Hello? Hello? Damn phone!” I said with genuine heat because I was _angry_ – at myself for not considering this – and because I thought phones were pretty suspect on general principle.

            “If you can hear me, I'll call in the morning! Come to Chicago! Morgan? Hello!” That last bit I wasn't faking; I really couldn't hear him anymore over the mariachi music blaring over the connection. I hung up, satisfied.

            “What did he ask that you didn't want to answer?” John asked, his voice casual, almost off handed in a way that suggested a greater familiarity than we really had. I turned toward him and found that I didn't even mind how familiar he was, that it seemed like we'd known each other all of our lives.

            “My location,” I answered sheepishly. “No way I can bring him here.”

            “Why not?”

            I blinked. “Why not? Uh... because you have a _prison_ in your basement? And because you're just a normal human.”

            John quirked an eyebrow at me and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach. I had an immediate feeling like I was standing in front of the principal's desk after getting caught fighting. For no reason, I suddenly felt that I should apologize.

            “Normal is not something I'm called often.”

            “Look...if he finds out that you know about... them-”

            “The White Council,” John supplied helpfully.

            I winced. “Yes. Them. I get in lots of trouble.”

            “You didn't tell me.” His brow furrowed in confusion.

            “Technically, I kinda did. And they already don't like me. All it would take is the vaguest hint of a suggestion that I've acted inappropriately and my head comes off, just like that.” I snapped my fingers to illustrate.

            John considered this, eyes searching my face. I must have been too tired to hold off his shrewd perception, because he nodded. “You've done something to get yourself on a watchlist.”

            That was something I wasn't willing to share, no matter how close it felt like we'd become in the last hours. “Not important. Important thing is that it would cause problems for me _and_ for you if They found out about you knowing about Them.”

            John nodded vaguely, not so much in agreement as it was the physical equivalent of a filler noise to show he was listening to me. He pushed his rolling chair away from his desk and then bent over until he completely disappeared from view. I inched forward, trying to peer over the desk to see what he was doing. I heard the sliding of wood-on-wood, some clattering, a smooth series of clicks, and then a pop. By the time I'd crept close enough to see over the desk, he had already closed what I would bet was a safe, and was straightening. He handed me a manilla envelope made of a heavy parchment with a broken wax seal. I stared at the seal for several seconds, trying to place it – an eye with a lightning bolt struck through. It seemed familiar, but I just couldn't tell why. Pushing that puzzle back for the moment, I opened the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

            “Uh... I am too tired to read legalese.”

            John smiled, an expression that seemed almost affectionate. “That would be a lengthy contract between myself and one Donar Vadderung, a signatory of the Unseelie Accords.”

            My mouth dropped open and I nearly lost my grip on the papers. “Ah. Oh.” Articulate. That's me.

            “As I told you, Harry, I have been briefed – _very_ briefly,” he added with a touch of annoyance, “On the supernatural world. I am aware of the White Council, and the vampire courts, and the Knights of the Cross and their enemies, as well as the Sidhe. Now that I am aware of them, it is my hope that you will be willing to expand that knowledge.”

            He spoke quietly, intensely, circling around the desk to stand in front of me. Taking the contract from my slack grip, he slid it back into the heavy envelope and laid it gently on the desk. Meeting my eyes without fear, he said, “I hope for many things.”

            I swallowed hard, feeling pursued, my heart thundering in my chest. “Yeah, I see that.” I didn't really see though. I was getting some pretty crazily-mixed signals and wasn't sure how to interpret John or his behavior. “But we're going to have to talk about that in the morning, because I'm not sure I could even spell my name right now.”

            John nodded and took a step back to give me some space. If he was frustrated or disappointed, he hid it well. “I'll show you to a room. When would you like me to wake you up?”

            I got the distinct impression that most of John's guests didn't get the personal tour and a wake up call from the master of the house himself. Of course, that could just be a turn of phrase and I could wake up with Cujo hanging over my head.

            “Early,” I said reluctantly. “Morgan is already going to pissed enough that I woke him up at 2 in the morning, no benefit to keeping him waiting all morning.” _Though it would be a_ little _fun_ , I mused...

            “7 a.m.?” John suggested. “Earlier?”

            It would have been smarter to just call Morgan right back, but I nodded instead. “7 a.m.” Fiveish hours of sleep sounded like a good night to me. John agreed and gestured me out of the room.

            “Where are the other girls?” I asked as we tromped up the stairs. I had no reason to suspect that John would take care of our prisoners and not the victims, but I still wanted to know.

            “With some of the ladies in my employment. They've been bathed, put in clean clothing, and put to bed. I expect that they will sleep well through tomorrow. When they wake, I'll get them whatever help they need. None of them had any injuries to speak of but for sore feet, a few scrapes and bruises.”

            I shook my head sadly. I knew I would need to examine them with my Sight sooner rather than later to make sure no one had done some magical fiddling in their heads, but that would have to wait until tomorrow at least. John showed me into a second story bedroom, and I fell asleep as soon as my eyes lighted on the bed.

 

~*~

 

            I woke in an unfamiliar bed. I was so sure I was dreaming that I pulled the blankets back up over my head and burrowed into the veritable mountain of soft pillows. I knew I was dreaming because Mister wasn't purring on top of my face in a not-subtle attempt to wake me up for breakfast. Also, because my feet did not hang off the edge of the bed _and_ if I moved my legs to either side, there was bed to spare.

            “Harry.” A soft, clear baritone. Gentle, amused, maybe touched with affection. It was my dream, so I decided that this must be my lover, who was about to crawl under the covers with me and wake me up in much more pleasant ways.

            “Mr. Dresden.”

            “D'ya always call your lovers 'Mr'?” I asked groggily before my brain could put a leash on my tongue. My body hadn't quite caught up yet, but my head was getting a niggling suspicion that I wasn't sleeping. The bed dipped as a weight settled beside me. A gentle hand dragged the blanket away.

            “Did you say something? I couldn't tell through the mountain of pillows.”

            Oh, thank you, he hadn't heard me. The rest of me finally remembered Undertown, Ms. Teller, John – Gentleman Johnny Marcone- Cujo, the kids... Morgan.

            “Crap. What time'sit?”

            “Ten after seven. I brought in a rotary phone and installed it while you were oblivious. The address is on the paper next to it. I wasn't sure if you took time to explore last night – I'll leave the bathroom door open, and there are fresh towels and some clothing that should fit you. Please feel free to use anything you find there. There's someone waiting outside to take you down to breakfast when you're ready.”

            “Uh... thanks,” I said, blinking up at him. He couldn't have had any more sleep than I did – in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't slept at all – but he looked alert, calm, and as well groomed as ever. He could have been preparing for a boating trip or a golf game/business meeting. I, on the other hand, could barely string three words together and appeared to have crashed into the bed in all of my clothes with the sole exception of the duster and my shoes.

            “You're welcome, Harry.” John smiled at me again and left the room. I took a second to wake up, yawning hugely and scrubbing at my face. To my surprise, I found a warm damp towel on silver tray next to the promised rotary phone, along with a glass of water, and a bottle of aspirin. I'd never been treated to such luxuries in my life and I was so overcome with the unexpected sweetness of it, that I could hardly draw breath. It probably wasn't actually sweetness – there was very little about John Marcone that could be called sweet- but some sort of strategy. Still, I appreciated the gesture more than even John probably intended.

            Grabbing the cloth, I gave my face and neck a long lathing. The warmth felt amazing and the cloth was soft. I kept it up until the cloth had gone cool and my face felt raw. The water I swallowed in a few long gulps, but I left the aspirin. I did have a headache, but it was just dehydration, caffeine withdrawal, and sleep fog. It would fade given a few hours to wake up and a cup or three of coffee. I suddenly remembered that I'd left my Coke from the night before in the Beetle and frowned in displeasure. A Coke sounded good, but that one would be all flat and watery now, damnit. I tried to remember if I had any still at home, but didn't think so. When was the last time I'd gone grocery shopping? I sighed and called myself on procrastination.

            _Well...best get this over with..._ I dialed the number that would ring through to Morgan (or whoever he had on duty – though who was I kidding, no way Morgan would give this over to someone else when he had the glimmer of hope that I could be implicated in this business). I had the number memorized only because leaving a slip of paper with a Warden's number on it lying around was a supremely bad idea, and because I'd been so sure it was some kind of a trap that I glared at it for days before finally destroying the card.

            Morgan picked up on the third ring. “Dresden?” There was only the most bare of lifts on the last syllable to indicate that it was a question and not an accusation.

            “Morning,” I returned, and had to clear my throat. I sounded like a forty-year smoker with a chest cold. “Morgan. Are you in Chicago?”

            “Wizard Dresden, so you've finally decided to confess.” He sounded smug as a cat with yellow feathers still caught in his paws.

            I sputtered. “What?”

            “Perhaps you don't remember calling me in the middle of the night to confess that you are a warlock. Give me your location now – don't run, it will only make it harder on you.” His tone suggested that while it would be harder on me, it would be more fun for him if I ran.

            “Morgan...You...” I stopped myself from spewing out about a hundred derogatory phrases. I drew a deep breath – right now we were both functioning in an official capacity, and mouthing off to him was not in the best interest of my continued good health. “Morgan, I called last night to tell you that I apprehended a warlock. I caught him in the middle of a demon summoning ritual. I didn't witness any Law breaking, but I'm all but sure that he has. He tried to roast me with conjured fire and killed four women before I broke up his party.”

            Morgan was silent on the other end of the line. “ _You_ are turning in a warlock?” Suspicion dripped from every word like acid. He wasn't completely off base to be suspicious – I'd made my opinions of the so-called trials of warlocks plain. They were kids, mostly, and they usually turned to dark magic by accident because they didn't know better. Unfortunately, even if they were innocent of what they were doing the first time, dark magic twists the mind without exception. It was like heroine to a magic user, and it took some pretty strong intervention to get them to stop and a lifetime of careful self-monitoring to keep from falling off the wagon – I should know. Any hope of saving them died early in the process. I'd been lucky. Goatee hadn't been. Despite my repeated arguments that Wardens should be tracking down new wizards _before_ they became warlocks, the only response I'd ever gotten was to be sure and let them know as soon as I had a solution to that problem.

            “He _killed four women_ , Morgan. And...” I hesitated, but there was no way I could hide the cultists' involvement. If I tried, it would just make them look guiltier. “And he dragged 5 children into his ritual. I don't think any of the kids have broken any Laws,” I said hurriedly, “But they were close.”

            Something in my voice must have carried over the blessedly clear connection, because Morgan's tone was neutral when he responded, “Thank you for reporting this incident, Wizard Dresden. You said you have the warlock and his accomplices in custody?”

            I winced, but nodded at the phone before I remembered I would need to speak. “Yes.”

            “Where are you?”

            I gave him the address John had written down on the crisp notepad beside the phone. He repeated it back to me, and I corrected two reversed numbers.

            “Myself and two Wardens will be there shortly to take custody of the warlock and test the children.”

            The test was a surprising mercy and I was grateful for it – for both the kids' sake and my own. He could just as easily throw black bags over their heads and put them through a trial. However, before I could do something silly like murmur a thank you, Morgan ruined it by nearly swallowing the phone so he could snarl, “But know this, _Dresden_ , if I get even the slightest hint that you were involved in training them...”

            He let the threat hang and I rolled my eyes, jerking the receiver away from my mouth in time to get my tongue under control before I started cursing his stupidity – why would I train a coven of warlocks just to turn them over to the Council? Sheesh, some people and their blind convictions.

            “I'll see you soon, Morgan,” I said instead, making my voice saccharine sweet. He tried to say something else, but I hung up on him. I'd probably pay for it later, but it felt good for now.

            Stretching widely, I got myself to the feet and went in search of the promised bathroom. I wanted to crawl back into bed, but I doubted I had long before Morgan and his Warden buddies would show up to ruin my perfectly good morning. I found a stack of soft towels, the promised clothing, and an assortment of toiletries – shampoo, a minty body wash, toothpaste, a toothbrush still in the package, Scope in a tiny bottle, even a selection of razors and aftershave.

            “I could definitely get used to this,” I decided, stripping out of my dirty clothing and making a half-hearted attempt to fold them before slipping them into the canvas bag marked for that purpose. I was positive that the clothes would make it back to me, clean and probably smelling like expensive laundry detergent. Stepping into the shower, I got my next pleasant surprise for the day – it was _warm_. Stars and _stones_ , a hot shower. When was the last time? I couldn't even remember. Maybe not since I was a child, since before my dad died.

            Groaning, I curled into the warm water and nudged the lever until the spray was as hot as I could manage it. I should probably have felt bad for staying in the water as long as I did (so long that it was hard to breathe through all the steam), but I was too lost in the sheer ecstasy of hot water to manage the guilt. Feeling loose limbed and warm, I took the time to shave, brush _and_ floss (any dentist would be proud), and even tried to bring some semblance of order to my unruly head of hair. It was equally as stubborn as I am, so I gave up after some vigorous combing that resulted in approximately the same mess it usually took on after a shower. Shrugging, I picked an aftershave that reminded me of the country – woody and musky, but still light and clean. The clothes _did_ fit, suspiciously well. I'm tall. NBA tall. Finding pants that both fit me at the waist and reach to my ankles? Let's just say that if I was given the choice of taking on a vampire in hand-to-hand or scouring every thrift store in the city for a pair of well-fitting pants, I'd take the vampire any day.

            The shirt was similarly well-fitted, long sleeves all the way down to my wrists and hem falling comfortably to my hips. The color wasn't one I wore often, a pine green, but it was soft and I liked the feel of it against my skin.

            I made the bed and gathered my staff, rod, and duster before I left the room, finding Spike outside the door. He didn't look quite as alert and aware as John, but he was annoyingly upright and lacking any outward signs of not getting to bed until the small hours of the morning.

            “Morning, Spike!”

            His brow furrowed. “Huh?”

            Ah, a man who shared my gift of eloquence. I patted him on the shoulder in a decidedly comradely fashion as I walked past. He overtook me in a few quick strides and only cast one confused glance at me as he led me down a long curving staircase and into a dining room. John looked up from some doodad or other and I politely waited by the door while he turned it off. He smiled appreciatively and I thought my dad would have been proud of my manners.

            “You clean up well,” John said, and heat flushed into my face as I remembered my very badly timed attempt at dream induced seduction. I cleared my throat and turned to the bar set against the wall. An arrangement of pastries sat on a three-tiered serving dish next to a selection of cereals, a pitcher of milk sitting in ice, and a warm skillet next to a waffle maker.

            “Would you like some eggs, sir? Bacon? Waffle or pancakes?” an attractive woman in her forties asked me with a smile. She didn't really look like household staff dressed in a simple khaki skirt and a sky blue blouse that did good things for her eyes and her complexion, but she stood ready at the end of the table, hand resting on a mini fridge. She looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place her.

            “Yes,” I decided.

            “What can I make for you?”

            I gave her a giant smile and a wink. I repeated, “Yes.”

            She caught on and laughed. “Take a seat, I'll bring it over.” She set right away to pouring batter in the waffle maker, and then started pulling packages out of the fridge.

            “I can make it,” I offered uncomfortably. I wanted all those things, but I didn't really want to make her wait on me. I was a pretty decent cook and I could manage eggs and pancakes, though the waffle maker might blow up.

            “It's not a problem, sir. Please take a seat.” She reminded me so much of a cheerful housewife/mother that I didn't argue any further. Besides, she was probably paid more to make breakfast than I make in the grand scheme of things. I grabbed a glazed doughnut and a cup of coffee to tide me over and sat at the table.

            “How was your conversation with Warden Morgan?”

            It didn't even surprise me that John had been paying enough attention to my conversation last night to catch Morgan's name and surmise his position. “Good as can be expected with Morgan. He'll be here soon with two other Wardens. And he'll probably blow up and try to cut my head off at least once.”

            John glanced up from the paper he'd picked up after abandoning his electronic doohickey. “You're serious.”

            “Dead serious. Harhar.” I flashed him a toothy grin around a bite of sticky doughnut and then washed it away with a generous gulp of coffee. I groaned. “God, this is good stuff. You know, if it weren't for the whole... being in the mob thing, I would totally take over your business just for the coffee.”

            Smirking, John folded his paper. “You wouldn't have to join the mob to make this kind of money,” he said, leaning forward to give me the benefit of his intense eyes. “With your... talents, you could be quite wealthy.”

            I shrugged. “Yeah, but then I wouldn't fit the stereotype of the wizard in the drafty dark dungeon. I'd have to replace my whole wardrobe, and maybe dye my hair. Not a good look.”

            “Do you always hide behind humor?”

            I glanced at him, but was saved from having to respond by the arrival of my first waffle (I say first, because another was already steaming away), along with caddy of jams, syrups, and dishes of fruit. I thanked her and she gave me a very heartwarmingly maternal smile in return.

            Apparently realizing that I wasn't going to respond, John changed the subject. “I moved our guests into a more... accessible location. Excuse me one moment while I warn the gate that we're expecting visitors.” He stood and strode purposefully out of the room. I watched him go with an odd squirmy feeling in my gut from all the 'we' and 'our' going around in conversation.

            “It's been awhile since he's relaxed during a meal.” I jumped and turned toward the wonderful waffle goddess, and then realized that I hadn't introduced myself or asked her name. I cursed myself for it – here I was giving myself back-pats for being polite to the mobster while I just rolled right over the normal person.

            “Sorry, I just realized I didn't introduce myself,” I said by way of explanation when she blinked at my expression. “I'm Harry Dresden. Thank you very much for making me breakfast.”

            “Anna Teller. Thank you very much for saving my daughter's life.”

            Ah, that was why she looked familiar. I softened the lines around her eyes, narrowed the bridge of her nose a touch, changed the color of her eyes, and she was the image of Denise Teller. For some reason, I felt my face go hot. Before I could say anything more, John returned. Anna brought me another waffle a moment later along with a pile of scrambled eggs oozing cheese, half a pound of bacon, and a plate of fluffy pancakes. I thanked her again and dug in, unable to suppress a moan at the first bite of the eggs, warm and perfect, and smothered in wonderfully sharp cheese. I typically ended up with individually wrapped slices of processed American, or a block of Velveeta, so the meal was even more amazing for that. All I needed now was a can of Coke and I would be in heaven. Anna brought me more eggs and bacon without me asking, and I finally had to stop her after another stack of pancakes, or I would be too stuffed to dodge Morgan's deathswing later.

            John returned and took his seat, dumping a cup of granola into his yogurt and ignoring my antics with my own breakfast.

            “I'd ask you to marry me,” I told Anna seriously, “But it looks like I've already been beaten to the punch.” I pouted at her in mock heartbreak and she laughed, reaching out to brush my hair back apparently without thought. When she realized what she was doing, she jerked her hand back and blushed. The splash of color drained ten years off her face and I realized that she was probably closer to her early 40’s rather than approaching 50.

            “Thank you for letting me cook for you this morning, Mr. Marcone.” She turned to face her employer, hands clasped in front of her as if it would erase her touching his guest. I wanted to tell her I hadn't minded, but I didn't think either of them would interpret that the way I meant.

            “Thank _you_ for the excellent meal.” John gave her a smile that was warm, but not warm the way he smiled at me. I puzzled at it, seeing the difference but unable to nail it down exactly. It was the kind of business-sincere smile given to clients and partners, not the friendliness that I'd been seeing since day one.

            “I hope you pay her well,” I told John after she unplugged the skillet and left. “Because someone will take her off your hands if you don't.”

            “Threatening to poach one of my people?” John asked lightly, a phrase I suspected would have carried quite a lot more threat for anyone else.

            “Hey, I'd take her in a heartbeat, but I doubt her husband or her wallet would appreciate it.” I stuffed down the last few bites of pancake even though I was already full. We might have continued bantering like that for hours, but Cujo interrupted us with an announcement of the Wardens' arrival. The comfortable fullness in my stomach turned to a sour stone and I sighed. Morgan... Stars and stones, that guy was enough to give anyone indigestion.

            John led me to a locked sitting room, where the five teenagers waited. I saw a similar breakfast bar set up against the far wall and breathed sigh of relief I hadn't known I was holding onto. Freckles sat on one couch with the two blondes on either side of her, her boyfriend sat at her feet, and the other boy hovered by the table. He had that gauntness that teenagers get when they go through a growth spurt – I remember it very well, always being hungry, limbs never quite where you expected them to be – and he was making use of the breakfast bar with the gusto of a man at his last meal.

            “Morning,” I greeted, aborting the 'kids' I'd nearly added to it. I wanted their cooperation and offending their teenage sense of maturity wasn't the way to do it. “Did you get any sleep?” They nodded as one numb mass. I knelt in front of Freckles, keeping the coffee table between us and ignoring her boyfriend for the time being. “Some people are going to be here in a minute,” I told her softly. “Remember the Council I mentioned last night? These are them. You need to be polite and honest with them. I'm not going to sugar coat this, they hold your lives in their hands. Do you understand?”

            One of the blondes went pale and turned her face against Freckles' sleeve to sob quietly against her. Between Freckles' feet, the boyfriend tensed as if to attack me.

            “I'm on your side,” I told them harshly. “And I'll do whatever I can for you, but you can't piss these people off. Tell me you understand.”

            Freckles nodded, looking shaky herself. “We understand. You guys, just be quiet. I'll talk.” That was probably how it would have gone anyways, but I gave Boyfriend a steady look just to make sure he was aware that the male posturing wouldn't get him anywhere today. He looked away from me.

            “Where's Goatee?” I asked John and watched the brief bout of puzzlement before he realized who I was talking about.

            “We'll bring him in after the Wardens have arrived. I thought it safer for everyone, and it would give the Wardens a chance to interview these young people.”

            I nodded, but didn't get any further than that before the door opened. Spike had a very dark look on his face and Cujo responded to it with an almost instinctive speed. His stance shifted, settling his weight more evenly between his feet, and he glared hard at the trio coming in behind Spike. Morgan led the charge, dressed in the gray cloak of his office with his silver sword sheathed at his hip. The grisly Warden's eyes met might for a brief second and turned away. A snarl twisted his lips.

            “Wizard Dresden! In the home of a-”

            “Warden Morgan,” I interrupted, not because I actually wanted to help him out at all, but he wasn't exactly making his job with the kids any easier. Even though I'm the one who'd gotten them in trouble in the first place, I could practically feel the weight of the kids' juvenile loyalty falling behind me when Morgan came on like a raging bull. “These are the young people I was telling you about earlier.” I gave him a significant look that he met with narrowed eyes before turning his gaze to survey the room. He dismissed John, Cujo, and Spike out of hand (bad move), sneered at me, and then flickered his gaze over each of the kids.

            I had to admit that I was impressed. It took him only a few minutes of concerted staring to ascertain that none of the children were tainted with dark magic. Behind him, the two younger wardens (a woman I vaguely remember seeing at the last Council meeting I was dragged to, and an Asian man of indistinct ethnic background with a scar down the right side of his face) scanned the room as well. They were more curious about the vanilla mortals, but didn't speak. After Morgan scanned each kid, he drew his two fellows away for a conference that quickly grew heated and went on for several minutes in Latin. My Latin is... well, let’s just say, “Not good,” so I didn't catch anything except my name a few times. I learned from a correspondence course – sue me.

            It was the woman who broke away first. She had a strong Eastern European accent, a wide dark face, and piercing eyes that appeared almost teal in the light. “None of you have yet been tainted by dark magic,” she said, eyes sliding over each of the children. “But you all have the potential hanging close to your auras. Be aware that should you ever dabble again in the dark arts, death will come swiftly to you, and with no hesitation. Wizard Dresden will brief you on the Laws, and you will remain in contact with him until he determines that you are to be trusted with your gifts.” She turned her creepy eyes to me and I gaped at her.

            “Um, sorry, what?” I hissed. She didn't respond. I glanced over at Morgan and he had a look of such dark hatred on his face that I actually winced away from him. Putting me in charge of the Junior Death League had obviously not been his idea.

            “Mr. Marcone, could we remove the children from the room now, or go to this other man, the warlock?”

            John inclined his head. He stepped into the hallway briefly and came back with a pair of women dressed casually in bright clothing. They held their hands out to the kids and I gave them encouraging nudges to get them moving. The whole chain of them gave Morgan and the Wardens very wide berth, clothes scraping against the door frame as they escaped. I really wished I could go with them.

            “We will discuss the details of your assignment later, Wizard Dresden,” the woman told me with a short nod. “Tell us how you came to be in custody of these children and this warlock?”

            And so, while we waited for Goatee to be brought in from his cell, I explained the night in as much detail as possible, looking frequently to John for corroboration and his amazing recall for details.

            “You brought two non-magical humans into Undertown and discussed our world and the Council with them?” the unknown man asked in a very quiet voice, disapproval practically dripping from his tongue.

            “I didn't have enough time to argue with them about going. And they already knew about the Council and magic and etcetera.” I glanced over at John and he provided the envelope with the contract. The woman's eyes widened when she saw the seal and they all looked grave and awestruck when they glanced over the contract and the name on the signature. Apparently Vadderung was a big deal. Was that why his seal looked so familiar? I still couldn't place it, but I felt smug on John's behalf for their thunderstruck expressions.

            “Forgive me for interrupting,” John said when it was apparent that the Wardens were gearing themselves back up to Inquisition Mode, “But it occurs to me that you've been in my home for nearly an hour and we've yet to be properly introduced. My name is John Marcone, these are my associates.” I tuned him out as he continued the niceties, neatly shaming the already off balance Wardens by offering them breakfast and asking if they need anything else. The man fully disengaged from the scene, obviously not impressed by being in a mobster's home. When he turned his head, I caught a peek of a colorful tattoo on the side of his neck and think I could guess why. The woman was more socially conscious and she looked suitably chastised. Morgan just mad-dogged me from the corner. From the snarl on his face, I guess that he'd been exiled there after the conference over the fate of the children.

            “You are correct, of course, and my apologies. This is something of an unusual situation all around. I am Warden Avarin, these are Wardens Morgan and Kita. We deeply appreciate your assistance in this matter and your hospitality.”

            Before she could continue or John could respond, there was a knock at the door. A third goon, who I hadn't even noticed (go me and my skills of observation), stepped out of the corner to open the door. He was a tallish man with a face that was chiseled, sort of roguishly attractive, but the fancy suit couldn't hide the web of scars on his knuckles or the distinctive bulge of a gun under his left arm. Scarknuckles stood out of the way for two orderlies (or at least two thugs dressed like orderlies) to push Goatee into the room. Goatee was still in the straightjacket and muzzle, and strapped down to the gurney. It was lifted on the top so he was sitting more or less upright. His eyes were even wilder than they had been the night before, wide and dilated while he shrieked and tossed himself around in the restraints. He immediately captured the attention of the Wardens (even Kita), and they moved to stand around him.

            Avarin looked back at me briefly. “Wizard Dresden, have you examined this man with your Sight?” she asked in a professionally neutral tone.

            “No! Hell's bells, no!” I responded immediately. The Sight, sometimes called The Third Eye, The Eye of Horus, and about a million other things, is a wizard's sixth sense (or seventh, or eighth depending on who you talk to and what order you like to put things in). It opens a window in the universe and gives the wizard a glimpse of the way things really are. It's one thing that all wizards, no matter how big or small of a talent they are, can use. It's also the first thing you have to learn how to control or you end up in the looney bin in a hurry. Though a powerful tool, it comes with one severe downside – you can never unSee anything you See with your Sight. And I don't mean that in the mystical “things once seen can never been unseen” way – because things you see with your eyes can be forgotten, can be dulled by time, can even be consciously altered in your mind to make them less punishing. Whatever you See with your Sight stays there forever, unaltered, never fading, never softening. Just like I didn't want to get into a soulgaze with Goatee, I even less wanted to See him like that.

            Avarin nodded shortly, not appearing surprised or disappointed. The three Wardens exchanged brief glances and tossed a few hand signals. It took me a second to identify, but I realized with shock that they were playing Rock, Paper, Scissors. Avarin lost and let out her breath. She closed her eyes briefly to steady herself and then opened them again and looked down at the madman thrashing on the gurney. It took only a moment. She shuddered very faintly and looked away. I almost opened my Sight then out of stupid, useless chivalry. I didn't want her to have to hold that memory all alone, but of course it wouldn't do her the tiniest bit of good for me to See it too. She sighed, looking suddenly much older and very tired. She shook her head and the other two nodded.

            Turning to me, Avarin announced, “You did well to bring this man to our attention. He is already completely gone to the Dark, has committed many atrocities, and would have committed many more if left unchecked. Wardens Morgan and Kita will escort the warlock off the premises – I will remain to brief you, if that is acceptable?”

            She looked to me for an answer, seeming to genuinely be giving me the opportunity to say no. I wanted to protest calling him 'the warlock,' but of course I didn't know his name either. I remembered Freckles had mentioned it the night before and tried to remember what it was but couldn't. Was I supposed to say ‘thank you’ to her for taking him out of my sight, for not killing him right in front of me? For sparing me from the consequences of my actions? Sure, I hadn't _made_ Goatee into the monster he was, and I hadn't killed those girls, or tried to drag children into the Dark. But I'd turned him in. I'd brought the Wardens down on him. I wracked my brain, thinking of anything that I could have done to keep it from getting to this point. Maybe I should have tried to work with him, maybe I should step up and take responsibility for him, try to save him from himself like I was saved. He gave a violent jerk on the gurney, mad eyes locked onto me and filled with simple, unthinking hatred. 

            I had a brief war with myself and, stupidly, I finally announced, “I want to be there.”

            All three Wardens looked at me in shock. Morgan narrowed his eyes suspiciously, Kita gave me the same narrow-eyed gaze, but it was more considering and evaluating. Avarin just looked sick.

            “What?” she asked finally, as if she hadn't heard, giving me the opportunity to tuck my tail in and back off. It would have been the smart, sane thing to do.

            Well, I'm not often accused of being smart. Or sane for that matter. I swallowed and repeated, “I want to be there. Not... _want_ to, but I should be. I'm handing him over to be killed. I don't get the luxury of hiding in here while he dies.”

            Morgan rolled his eyes and Avarin looked like she wanted to argue, but support (or damnation, the jury's still out) surprisingly came from Kita. “It is right for you to do this. No man should become distant from the punishment he orders.”

            I didn't think it was accurate to say that I'd _ordered_ it, but I got the sentiment. When the dispenser of the sentence and the executioner became too distant, the sentence lost its bite. It became too easy to send a man to death if you didn't have to see the light go out of his eyes.

            Avarin nodded. “We will remove the warlock from the property, and join the Wardens in a moment.” I could only nod, no further protest available. I felt sick and had to swallow down my breakfast for a second time as Goatee was led out of the room, shrieking and thrashing like a rabid dog.

            “Please sit,” Avarin invited once Scarknuckles had closed the door. She took a seat in the middle of the loveseat, leaving the couch across from her and the single chair to her left. She looked at us expectantly, not seeming to catch that she'd just invited John to a seat in his own home. I saw John consider this and file it away, though he decided not to say anything. Cujo moved to stand behind the single chair, obviously expecting John to take it. John glanced at it and then surprised us all by sitting on the couch instead. He gestured Cujo to the chair with a brief nod and looked up at me, waiting.

            I cast around for a place to lean my staff where it would still be in reach, and was surprised when Scarknuckles held a hand out for it. I gave it to him very reluctantly, keeping an eye on him and it while I and took a seat. I pointedly did not sigh in relief when Scar stepped up to the coach so he was behind me and slightly to the left, putting my staff neatly in reach. Spike took up a place at John's right shoulder. I didn't want to think about the picture we made just then, and hoped Avarin missed it. She didn't. Her eyes flickered between us, glanced up at the mob goons behind us, and then nodded slightly as if she understood something. I wished she would fill me in, because I wasn't sure _I_ understood it.

            “I will keep this brief in light of the... event we must attend to shortly.” She nodded to me faintly and I looked away from her. “Wizard Dresden. After significant debate and against the express judgment of your Warden, we've decided to place the monitoring of the five young people in your hands. I will not be coy with you, Dresden, this is a test. You will be monitored very carefully yourself, and one misstep with these lost children will bring the Doom down upon your head.”

            “So what else is new?” I muttered unhappily. Bad enough that I had Morgan showing up randomly and inconveniently in an attempt to catch me in some compromising situation just for pleasure of decapitating me, but now my fate relied on the good behavior of a bunch of teenagers. Hell, I might as well just kneel for the blade and save myself some heartache.

            Avarin ignored my comment and locked her gaze in the general vicinity of my eyes – it was a trick that most practitioners picked up, allowing for the whole 'intense stare' thing without triggering a soulgaze. “However,” she continued, “Considering the nature of this assignment, I will give you the opportunity to refuse.”

            I hid my shock with a suspicious 'intense gaze' of my own. “What happens to the kids if I refuse?”

            “They will be taken from their families this very day, split up, and put in the homes of mature practitioners to mentor them until they can prove themselves.”

            It sounded like a much easier out for me, and I tried to convince myself that it would be better for the kids too – a dedicated mentor who knew more about magic than I did, more about _children_ than I did, and would be able to give them more attention that I could. But I only let myself have that fantasy for the space of a single breath. I wasn't going to strip five families of their children just to save myself the hassle. I’d mentored wizardlings before. How bad could it be?

I sighed. “No, I'll do it.”

            Avarin's expression lightened into something like approval. “You needn't worry about tutoring them in magic, per se. None of them will ever have enough magic to need a true apprenticeship. At best, you may expect some parlor tricks. Your job is to make sure they fully understand the consequences of following in their leader's footprints, of reaching into the Dark for more power than they've been given. They will be your responsibility until they come of age in this country.” She hesitated, but then blandly asked, “Would you like them to witness the execution?”

            Justin would have made them watch. Justin would have made them sit right in front of Goatee, close enough to be spattered with his blood. He would have covered their heads in burlap bags, tied their hands, made them feel the fear and uncertainty of it. It would be an effective deterrent, that was for damn sure. At least for a while. But I'm not Justin – I will never be Justin.

            “Absolutely not.” That one decision drove home that these kids were going to be _my_ responsibility now. I felt the weight of that responsibility like a ton of bricks.

            Sighing in relief, Avarin admitted, “I hoped that would be your answer.” She gave me what I gathered was rare smile, but I couldn't make myself return it. “Let's not keep the warlock waiting. There's no point to it but cruelty to keep him.” She stood and I stood with her, reaching out for my staff and grateful that Scarknuckles surrendered it immediately, timed perfectly to make it appear that he held my staff for me all the time. I don't know how much I liked that image either, or that Avarin's sharp eyes caught it again. I looked over at John, suspicious of his motivations for this production, and found him on his feet with Cujo standing next to him.

            “John, no,” I said softly. “This is my side of the street – you don't need to see this.”

            “I am as much responsible for that boy's current situation as you, Mr. Dresden,” he said with calm professionalism. “Moreso, in fact, as it was my intervention that brought this matter to your attention. If I had not contracted you to find Ms. Teller, this young man would still be in his drafty dungeon.”

            My mouth gaped uselessly. I couldn't argue with him when I'd just made the same argument ten minutes earlier.

            “Damnit, John-!”

            “You heard the Warden, it would be cruel to keep him waiting.” John made a gesture with one hand for me to proceed him.

            Avarin watched us closely. Seeing that I was going to give in even before I'd realized I'd thrown in the towel, she interrupted any further protest by announcing, “Only one of your... associates may accompany you, and you will both be blinded for the trip.”

            John agreed to this with alarming alacrity. I fumed, feeling impotent in between them and finally gave up with a huff of annoyance. “Fine, you want the nightmares, they're all yours!” I said, with more heat than I’d meant to apply. Avarin left the room ahead of us and John let me get two feet in front of him before catching my sleeve briefly.

            “I have nightmares enough already, Harry. This is a necessary part of the roles we play.” He let me go and I followed after Avarin with my brows furrowed together.

 

            John and Cujo were both blinded before we struck out for the Nevernever (actually blinded with a charm, not merely blindfolded as they were obviously expecting). I could tell John was acutely uncomfortable with this by the tiny indrawn breath. When I reached for his hand, he clutched mine hard. He was doing a good job of appearing unaffected, but he kept a white knuckled grip on my hand even when I tried to transfer his hold to my jacket. Cujo didn't do much better, but at least he accepted a hold on my jacket and didn't try to cling to my wrist.

            The Ways are select paths that move through the Nevernever. They are jealously guarded and immensely valuable because they are known quantities in a very hostile world. The Nevernever is hard to explain to anyone who hasn't been there- it encompasses all that is Immortal, the realms of the Sidhe, the Wylds, planes of forgotten deities, and every nightmare or fantasy that has ever touched a human heart. It changes, has no fixed borders, and doesn't follow the same rules of logic or even physics that the mortal world adheres to on the other side of the Veil. Avarin opened a Way just inside the tree line on John's property, lead us through a similar forest on the other side for about a quarter mile, and then opened another Way back to Earth. If I'd been traveling alone, I would have had staff and blasting rod held at the ready, and I vowed then not to tell John about the six-legged mutant spider/wolf/hyena things that shadowed us the whole way through.

            Avarin lifted the charm on the two men once the Way was closed. We stood in a gravel courtyard of sorts with broken tractors and rusted old cars lining the area, and a giant equally rusted warehouse just in front. Morgan stood by the door, looking like he was chewing on nails. When he saw us step through, it was as though he'd washed them down with acid. He didn't even look at me as he pulled the sliding door open. It was a good thing, because my gut was so twisted up that I couldn't have managed my usual too-cheery smile and flippant greeting then for anything.

            Inside, two members of the Council waited with their hoods pulled up and faces shadowed. I didn't even try to peek under the hoods – I wasn't really up on the who's who of the Senior Council anyways. I stood quietly at the back with John and Cujo. We clumped together without conversation, as if we were huddling for warmth. Even Cujo was less hostile to me than usual, standing at my left shoulder. John stood to my right and slight in front of me. If I twitched my shoulder an inch forward, our hands would have brushed. I didn't, but found that I actually kind of wanted to feel the warmth of his dry grip.

            The 'trial' was short – far shorter than mine had been. The three Wardens each gave quick testimony – Morgan reported faithfully and succinctly (though obviously very unhappily) that I had been prompt in reporting the activity and cooperative in handing over the Warlock, Avarin gave a brief explanation of what she Saw when she opened her Sight, and I didn't envy her the tiny shudder. Kita's only contribution was a note that it was admirable on our parts to attend the trial (that got our huddled group a lot more attention than any of us wanted), and that was that. One of the hooded Council members came forward and opened their Sight to confirm Warden Avarin's analysis, and then stepped back. Since it was Morgan's territory, he drew his gleaming silver sword and snapped Goatee's head off without so much as a moment's hesitation. There was a great spray of arterial blood, Goatee's head hit the ground with a dull _thump,_ bounced once, and came to rest a few feet from his body, which swayed as if in confusion before slumping forward gracelessly.

            I winced, but didn't realize I was shaking until John rested two fingers on the back of my hand. I concentrated on those two tiny points of warmth until I felt steadier. That was all, there was no more ceremony, no speeches, no cheers or wails. I wondered briefly who would mourn Goatee and resolved to ask Freckles what his name was – right after I asked for hers. The two Council members seemed to be watching us, but neither spoke or approached us. I wasn't going to protest the lack of attention when Avarin came back to lead us away. My mind grasped for something else to do – argued that he should be buried, that someone should know that he’d died, that he had a family out there who might want a headstone, or just know that he wasn't showing up to Thanksgiving dinner, but I couldn't get any of that out.

            Avarin led us back the same way we'd come, and this time I clutched John's hand as much as he clutched mine. Only Cujo seemed unchanged, maybe seemed even steadier than he had going through. I wasn't sure whether to appreciate his rock solid presence or scream at him for not feeling more. It was a stupid impulse either way, and I knew that John's anxiety did not come from witnessing the execution. As much as I'd been pretending that he was just a charming, helpful businessman, it was time to face up to reality – John had probably administered more gruesome executions than that. His anxiety stemmed only from the loss of control, of having to rely on me and a stranger to guide him through the unknown. Either I needed to be okay with this, or John and I said goodbye at the door and from there forward occasionally waved to each other from opposite sides of the line.

            We were quiet by the time we got back inside. John offered Avarin food, drink, a place to rest, but she declined and I don't think John was in the least disappointed. I followed him inside numbly. I knew I should go to the children and explain what happened to their former leader and how the world was going to work for the next few years at least. But I couldn't, not yet. Cujo faded into the background and I realized finally that I hadn't heard a single word from him since he’d announced the Wardens' arrival. Spike and Scarknucles were nowhere to be seen, and I was grateful. John led me into a comfortable library, leaving Cujo at the door. We sat in front of an unlit fire and I took the tumbler of liquor John offered, knocked it back without even tasting it, and held it out for more. He didn't say a word as he refilled the glass and waited to see if I would treat the second the same way. When I sipped at it, he poured his own drink. Predictably, it was _really good_ stuff.

            With a wave and a muttered word, I lit the fire. It was a comforting gesture for me, made me feel like I was home. For several minutes, I avoided thinking about John, or the children, or Goatee. Instead, I thought about Mister waiting for me at the apartment, no doubt annoyed that he'd had only kibble since yesterday morning and wanting to be let out. If I didn't make it home soon, he would probably show his displeasure by pissing on something other than cat litter. I tried to inventory the contents of my icebox and gave it up after a moment. I turned my attention to my bank account and wondered if I'd remembered to pay the rent bill at the apartment yet, thinking I probably had, but it could have been the office rent I was remembering – no, I remembered that the only reason I picked up John's phone call was the unhappy red circle on my calendar. And that brought me back to John.

            “I don't know what to do with you,” I said finally. John looked over at me, pulled out of his own contemplations, but didn't speak. “I really hate what you do. I _really_ do. But you're right about everything you said last night. And I... am no stranger to being on the wrong side of the law.” I took a shuddery breath, and for no reason at all, I started to tell him something I've never told another living soul, not even my old master Ebenezer. Ebenezer _knew_ of course, but I'd never actually told him. “I killed my first master. I was seventeen, and I burned him alive.”

            If I expected a reaction out of John, I was apparently doomed to be disappointed. He waited. I finished the amber liquid in my glass and let John refill it without looking at him. I was starting to get that nice, warm glowy feeling in my chest. My tongue felt numb.

            “I was defending myself. He was trying to make me... make me into Goatee. Into that boy we killed today.” My voice was so soft that I could barely hear it over the crackle of the fire, couldn't really be sure that I was speaking at all. “So I took the fundamental energy of Creation, of _Life_ and I turned it on my master and used it for death. He was also my foster father, and I killed him.” I shivered despite the heat. “And my foster sister, my first love. She died that way too. They were my only family. I should have died, then, or before, or afterward when I had that black bag over my head. But someone spoke up for me, and instead I got probation.”

            I finally looked at John. His eyes met mine and his expression was serene – there was no recrimination, no disgust, but there was also no compassion, no indignation on my behalf, only acceptance. One of the reasons I'd never told anyone this was that I was afraid they would be angry _for me_ , would snap out, 'You were defending yourself and he deserved it!' I already knew that, and of course I hated the Council for hanging the Doom of Damocles over my head and treating me like a ticking time bomb, because I _was_ the victim – I'd been defending myself, and even though I hadn't realized it at the time, I'd been defending their Laws. I had been betrayed by the people I loved and trusted, and they’d punished me for refusing to roll over and die. But even though that was exactly how I felt, I wouldn't be able to stand it if someone else defended me for killing Justin and... and for killing Elaine.

            “I have a sword hanging over my head,” I told John, and couldn't even smile when his eyes flickered upward. “If I cross the line, or even look at the line funny, that sword comes down, instant execution, no trial, not a word in my own defense.”

            John finally nodded. He said nothing and I felt a great weight lift of my chest that I hadn't even known was there. I gasped at the feeling of relief and wondered at how profound it was – it was as though I'd had an elephant standing there for years and it only just now stepped away. It was almost painful it felt so good. I swallowed and looked away from him.

            “A child once took a bullet meant for me.”

            My head came up, but John wasn't looking at me anymore. I didn't say anything, giving him the same nonjudgmental ear he'd given me, even though the admission shocked me to my core.

            “I'd known what I was getting into, taking on this life. And I knew that people would die, but I was young and for some unfathomable reason, it never occurred to me that a mother would bury her little girl because of me. That very moment, I decided that I would stop that from happening to other mothers and other daughters. It took me nearly a decade, but I systematically destroyed the Vargassi family, and every day I fight to keep a choke hold on this city's underground.”

            John turned to face me and I was instantly hypnotized by the fire reflected in his eyes. The fire would have been there even if the fireplace had sat cold and unlit. “I have visited such nightmares on men that you would not understand,” he confessed softly. “And I see the face of every man I've killed, or maimed, or destroyed every night. We do not get to armor ourselves in principles and morals. We do not get to wield the sword of righteous justice, Harry. But we can go where those spotless knights cannot. We can do more good because we're willing to get in the mud and drag our enemies out of it by the throat. Stand with me, and we will both have many more nightmares before our job is through.”

            “But if we have the nightmares, maybe someone else can sleep soundly,” I finished softly, and knew I was caught, that I was in this through Hell and the cursing of angels – and we would probably see both.

            He reached his hand out and I took it in mine. “Just don't go fitting me for a Mob Suit Special,” I warned him gravely, holding tightly to his strong hand. “Mobster is never going to be in my job description and I don't work _for_ you.”

            John smiled. “I wouldn't have it any other way.” 


	3. Epilogue

Freckles turned out to be Violet Lauder. I could tell by the way she said her name with her mouth twisted that she didn't feel like a Violet. When I asked her what she liked to be called, she told me Trish, and that seemed to fit a bit better. Names are funny like that – the one you were born with isn't always the one you identify with the most. The two blondes with her were indeed cousins – Emma and Abigail Reiss, Boyfriend was one Noah Weatherholt, and the gangly newly-gained-five-inches was Caleb Petty.

            “What's going to happen to us, Mr. Dresden?” Trish asked. She sat up very straight, perched up towards the front of the sofa with Abigail and Emma pressed all the way to the back and the two boys standing behind. They would make a formidable group someday, if they stayed together and none of them strayed back to the Black.

            “None of you appear to have actually broken any of the Laws, and that saved your lives.” I wasn't going to be gentle with this, not because I didn't _want_ to be gentle, but because these kids had to understand how close they had come to the same fate as their erstwhile 'friend.'

            “We didn't know about any laws!” Abigail complained. Now that the terror of being captives had faded and they'd had a few good meals to dispel any fear of starvation or torture, the two cousins showed a tendency for bratty and sullen.

            “I am not your high school guidance counselor!” I snapped, startling them. “Sit up and pay attention. What you decide to do with your magic from this point forward will determine whether you grow up to be successful people with families and die in your bed of old age, or whether you find yourself kneeling on a concrete floor with a sword at your neck! This is not a game, and if you fail here it will not just lose you a scholarship, you will _die_.”

            I had their attention now. The fear was back and they stared at me wide-eyed, struggling to pull up that teenage Devil-May-Care bravado that got them through most conversations with adults.

            “Is that what happened to Klause?” Trish asked softly in the silence that followed.

            So that was his name. “Yes.”

            A shudder went through the group and they seemed to pull in even tighter. Emma started sniffling and I resolutely did not look at her for fear that I would cave and try to comfort her. Maybe one day I could be the mentor they would unburden their souls to, but today I had to be Authority.

            “He was kind of an asshole, and he killed all those girls, but...” Trish's face twisted a few times in misery. “But it's weird that he's gone. It could have been us.” Her boyfriend reached over and squeezed her shoulder. She lifted one hand absently to cover his.

            “It could have been,” I agreed, “But it wasn't. And it doesn't ever have to be as long as you don't do anything stupid. There are ways out there for minor talents like you to get more power, and if you look hard enough you'll find another Klause who is willing to help you do it. And every single one of those paths will put you on the wrong end of a Warden's sword.”

            “So what... you're our babysitter now?” Caleb asked, mustering up some machismo.

            I glared at him. “If you're going to keep up that attitude, that's exactly what I'll have to be. Until you turn 18, and then you're on your own to hang a sign over your head that says, 'here I am, Wardens, I'd really like to lose six inches off the top' and I won't be able to do a damn thing to help you.” He glared back at me, angry because he was sixteen, and I was an Adult, and he, like all sixteen year-olds ever, was convinced that he knew better than I did any day of the week. “But if you act like responsible adults, I will be happy to treat you that way. Believe me, I don't _want_ to be a babysitter. I want to help you discover what your talents are, and I want to make sure you know enough about the world to protect yourself and stay out of trouble.”

            “What should we do then?” Trish asked.

            “I'm going to tell you about the Laws and why they're important, and then we're going to get you home to your parents. Next Friday, the six of us are going to meet up and we'll figure out what you want to do with your lives and your magic. You have a little less than a week to think about it.”

            “What if we don't want it at all?” Emma asked very softly.

            “Magic is like a muscle. If you don't work it, eventually it will atrophy and just fade. If you decide that you want nothing to do with magic, all you have to do is never touch it again. Do you think you could do that?”

            She nodded, but then looked uncertain. All young wizards asked themselves that question at one point or another. In many ways magic could make life in a modern world more difficult. If the practitioner had more than just a smattering of magic, most technology was out – no cellphones or video games, or DVD players, or any of those fancy black boxes I saw regularly in the BestBuy and Circuit City ads that I got with the junk mail and spread out under Mister's litterbox. It meant knowing things about the world that modern devotees of the biggest cult in the world – Science – didn't really want to think about. It meant being different from friends and family, not being able to discuss interests and successes over holiday dinners. For a teenager, being different was no cake walk.

            “Well, think about it. Whatever you decide, you have to stay in contact with me until you're eighteen – after that, I can't make you do anything.”       

            “What if we don't?” Trish asked. “Stay in contact, I mean.” She didn't ask like she was planning on skipping town, but more on the full disclosure front, the borrower taking out a loan.

            “Then the Wardens track you down. If you've broken a Law, they behead you. If you haven't, they take you away from your families and put you in the care of a wizard far older and more crotchety than me until you prove you aren't going to go crazy and start sacrificing young women to demons with names you can't even pronounce.”

            They all winced and looked away from me as one body. I saw Abigail go green and worried that we would need a bucket in a hurry, but she swallowed down hard and took breaths in through her nose to keep from vomiting.

            “What you have all seen,” I said softly, “It's not fair that anyone should have to see that, and it's going to eat at you. At least if you stay in contact with me and with each other, you have someone to share the burden with before it consumes you completely.”

            Trish nodded in understanding and agreement, but Abigail looked like she wanted to just crawl into a hole and die. Emma didn't look much better, but I had trouble getting a read on the boys. They were so determined not to show how horrified they were of what had happened in that lair. Looking at Abigail, I added a new worry to my list. Suicide was a real possibility considering what they'd seen and helped carry out. I didn't know how to bring that up to them, or how to let someone in their lives know to look out for it at home. Trish slipped an arm around Abigail's shoulders and the way the smaller girl curled into her made me relax some.

            “Do you guys need a break before we talk more?”

            They did and I gave it to them.

 

~*~

 

            I sat quietly with John in front of his sprawling estate. The kids were all back with their parents and I had a promise from each that they would report to me on Friday after school. I mentally rearranged my schedule to make sure I could get to the other side of town to our designated pizza place meet up.

            “You will be good for those children,” John said into the silence. We hadn't talked since our little deal in the library over fine brandy.

            I rubbed at the back of my neck. “I'm not so sure. I've tutored a few kids before who found my ad in the phone book and wander in for help, but this... if I screw up, they could die.”

            “So don't screw up,” John said and it seemed as simple as that.

I laughed faintly and rested my head on the steering wheel. “Why didn't I think of that?”

            John patted my shoulder briefly and got out of the van. I did the same, leaving the keys in the ignition for one of the goon squad to take it away to where ever they stored the prisoner transports.

            “This has been a very weird two days,” I said, leaning back to look up at the dusky sky. “And I need to get home before my cat destroys the apartment.”

            John nodded. “I'll call you when I have a free evening and see if you're available.”

            “My, my, I haven't even left yet and you're already asking me on a second date? I hope it will be half as much fun as the first,” I teased.

            He smiled indulgently, and didn't respond to my teasing. Instead, he made a gesture to the Beetle, chugging up the driveway and said, “Drive safely.”

            “Always,” I lied. He didn't call me on the lie either and turned back to the house, already pulling out his gadgets.

            The flat and watery Coke was gone, replaced by a cold plastic bottle of the same. I grinned at it and took a long swallow before I even made it out of the driveway. The tank was full, the car had been cleaned, and it also sounded better than when I had handed it off. One of those little tree shaped air fresheners hung innocuously from the rear view mirror, obviously fresh and smelling almost overwhelmingly of pine. Apparently John's goon had taken the 'no harm' to heart and decided to hedge his bets by giving it back in better condition than he’d gotten it. I didn't know whether to be amused and grateful, or scared that one look from John brought out this kind of response in his people.

            A familiar to-go box sat on the passenger's seat and I peeked inside just as I pulled out to the main street. Four canolli sat nestled in a bed of butcher paper, dusted in powdered sugar. They were cold, so I surmised had been in a refrigerator, and they were a touch soggy, but I ate all four of them before I was even half way home.

            Mister threw all thirty pounds of irritated tabby into my shins on his way out the door, pausing briefly at the top of the stairs to twitch his tail stump at me. He disappeared into the growing darkness and I went inside. I had a stack of paperbacks to read, wood in the fire, and it turned out that I did have some food in the cupboards. All in all, it wasn't a bad end to the day.

            The next day I received a package from John with my clothes washed and smelling like expensive laundry detergent. In between the folds was an envelope stuffed with cash and a note in John's neat hand that read, _your fee plus danger pay. Don't try to return it, I'll just deposit it directly into your bank account if you do._

            Apparently just to show off, he’d listed the last five digits of the aforementioned bank account. I counted up the bills and nearly choked on the number, but the sad face over next Wednesday wasn't looking quite as intimidating any more. Neither was the sad face for next month for that matter.

            The kids did show up on Friday with backpacks slung over their shoulders and notebooks out and ready. I talked to them more about Klause and asked what they knew about the four victims who hadn't made it out. To my disappointment, they knew nothing except that Klause had mentioned having help – probably whatever had left the sprig of holly in Denise's dorm room. This did not fill me with warm and fuzzies. The four pieces of jewelry sat in a box in my lab and I had no idea how I was supposed to return them to the families or what I would say. We talked more about the Laws, and two Fridays later they brought another boy with them who had a little talent. A trickle of an idea started to form in my head then, but it would take a lot of work. I remembered the Council's directive to let them know when I found a way to catch warlocks before they became warlocks and felt like this might be the beginning of an answer, if I could just wiggle it out of my head.

            I didn't see John for another month, but he called me just as I was getting ready to leave and asked me to meet him at the pizza place. It amused him to no end, but I insisted on paying for our dinner and we talked like normal people for a while before he started asking questions about things normal people don’t talk about. This is apparently my life now – tutoring mini-wizards and mob bosses on Sidhe politics.

            Well, at least it won't be boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Harry are really very similar in a lot of ways, and it always struck me that the biggest reason Harry hates him is how they met – John bullied him into the car, tricked him into a soul gaze, and tried to buy him. All things that Harry would hate in even a saint. Additionally, Harry is loyal to a fault to his friends, even when they don't exactly walk the straight and narrow and make some questionable choices. So what if they met in different circumstances and John joined the short list of Harry's friends instead of trying to bully him? This is what I thought the result might be. Hope you liked it! In my ideal world, I would continue this into a giant epic, but while I have that planned, I don't want to promise.


End file.
